


Seduced By A Satyr

by VincentMeoblinn



Series: Satyr Fics [1]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal, Anthropomorphic, Dubious Consent, Frottage, M/M, Male Lactation, Masturbation, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mpreg, Mutual Masturbation, Oral, Rimming, Rutting, Same Sex Marriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-05
Updated: 2013-10-20
Packaged: 2018-01-10 06:15:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 21
Words: 53,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1156118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VincentMeoblinn/pseuds/VincentMeoblinn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John knew he was royally f&%^$& the second he approached Sherlock’s bedroom door. He had been intending to knock on his door and offer tea, but the sounds and smells coming from the other side caused him to beat a hasty, if limping retreat.</p><p>“Oh, my god,” John panted, staring down at his raging hard on. Who would have thought a Satyrs pheromones could be so utterly compelling?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

 

John knew he was royally fucked the second he approached Sherlock’s bedroom door. He had been intending to knock on his door and offer tea, but the sounds and smells coming from the other side caused him to beat a hasty, if limping retreat.

“Oh, my god,” John panted, staring down at his raging hard on. Who would have thought a Satyrs pheromones could be so utterly compelling?

XXXXXXX

John had met Sherlock through a mutual friend and had congratulated himself on not gaping like a fool at his first ever sighting of a Satyr; especially since this Satyr was working in a lab and dressed like a Man. He seemed to have no difficulty using any of the equipment; in fact within a few minutes of meeting him John was convinced the creature (man? Satyr?) was brilliant.

“I play the violin, sometimes I don’t talk for days, during summer I don’t wear clothes, that won’t bother you, will it? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.”

John had then discovered the man was actually a Consulting Detective and was dragged through a whirlwind case that ended in him shooting a man to protect the Satyr. Sherlock was shocked and grateful, but not nearly as grateful as John was for having the full use of his leg back when Sherlock cured his psychosomatic limp. He had spent no small amount of time nervously and carefully explaining that Sherlock’s Rut wouldn’t be a problem for him. He had no attraction to Satyrs, and especially not male ones, not that they weren’t perfectly fine, of course, but it was simply not for him. Sherlock had given him a disbelieving look, but dropped the subject.

Several months later, after surviving a madman with a bomb and snipers in a pool, John counted Sherlock as his closest friend. Which was why his sudden desire to burst into that room and hump his leg was awkward, to say the least. Still, he had been warned, and Sherlock had told him to simply stay away and give him time to come down from his Rut. John was proud of himself for not even testing the doorknob to see if it was unlocked.

John went upstairs and wanked until he thought his arm would fall off. No wonder slavers had made a market on sex slaves for Satyrs! Of course, all of that had been disbanded fifty years ago. True, John and Sherlock’s parents had lived through that repressed era, but Satyrs were considered people now. There were entire laws based on their ability to give – or not give – consent during Rut or Heat. Marching down there and offering himself up like a Doe in heat would be _wrong_. John was a liberal man, he believed in Satyr rights; especially after all he’d seen Sherlock go through with New Scotland Yard’s quite prejudiced Donovan and Anderson.

Which didn’t stop John from getting aroused to the point he needed something inside of him for the first time in his life.

“This is so fucked up. This is so fucked up,” John panted, tearing his room apart in search of something phallic enough to sate him. “Since when did I even want something up my bum in the first place?!”

The only thing he found that was even remotely properly shaped was his handgun barrel (he wasn’t quite _that_ desperate) and a candlestick from a time the power went out (it was only a few inches long). John stumbled downstairs, not bothering with more than a housecoat, which was hanging halfway off of his frame, his erection bobbing and leaking in front of him like a mockery to his sexuality. He scoured the kitchen (the rolling pin was too thick, the wooden mixing spoons too thin) and then the bathroom. Once his eyes fell on Sherlock’s hairbrush he knew he was about to cross a rather large boundary. It had a rounded, hard plastic handle that was tapered on each end with a smooth rounded tip at the base of the handle. It was going to hurt like a bitch when he fucked himself with it.

John barely made it back upstairs; lewdly fondling the brush in what he _knew_ was a creepy way. He did pull out most of the tangled hairs before dropping to his knees in front of his half-open door and snatching the lube from the bedside table; He at least had that much presence of mind. He did _not_ have the presence of mind to stretch himself first, and cried out in a mixture of pain and relief as he sank back on the handle. He held it firmly in one hand as he kneeled, using his feet to steady his wrist, slowly leaning back and impaling himself on the brush while trying not to notice that Sherlock’s scent – from handling the brush - was rather pungent on the free hand covering his mouth.

John moaned once the brush was inside, and reluctantly let it go. It shifted a bit as he fidgeted on the floor, sending sparks of color flickering over his eyelids. He grasped his painful erection and tugged at it a few times before he began to rock a bit. The brush didn’t slide in or out, but it did nudge his prostate as it wobbled inside of him, and that was _exactly_ what John needed.

His first orgasm took him by storm, tearing through him hard enough to send him crashing sideways to the ground, his muscles clenching around the hairbrush. He lay for a moment, gasping and trying to figure out how he’d ended up on the floor, until the urge to touch himself overwhelmed him again. This time simply having the brush inside wasn’t enough, and he crawled to the bed, practically sobbing in frustration as he dragged himself onto it. The brush teased his prostate as he crawled, its curved shape that narrowed before the brush’s head and again at the tip made a perfect butt plug.

Once he had gotten onto the bed and stuffed his pillow beneath his tortured member he balanced on his face, the front of his shoulders, and his knees. One hand gave him a lubed mock-partner to thrust into while the other reached back and grasped the bristled end of the hairbrush. The results were a mixture of agony and pleasure as his over stimulated nerves demanded he stop while his body pumped out hormones that demanded he continue. John thrust his cock into his squeezing hand and focused on the feel of the brush he was steadily fucking himself back on. There was simply no comparison to any type of sex act he’d ever been involved in. He couldn’t imagine ever becoming aroused again without aid of something pressed deep inside his body.

John’s second release left him unconscious, sprawled out sideways on the bed, with the brush occasionally bouncing as his muscles twitched and settled. He whimpered in his sleep, helpless to control it as two hours later another climax triggered itself in his dreams. He woke up screaming and sobbing, his traitorous cock twitching weakly in the first dry orgasm of his life. It left him unfulfilled and near tears, but he didn’t dare touch himself again. He lay there, drifting in and out of sleep and waiting for this nightmare to end.

Hours later John staggered downstairs to get something to eat. Not long after Sherlock staggered out of his bedroom, wrapped in a sheet like a toga, and half crawled to the bathroom.

“Do you need a…”

“No! Thank you!” Sherlock snapped irritably.

John shook his head and made a second meal, figuring the Satyr had to be starved. Sure enough, after a lengthy shower the detective dropped down in his chair wearing only a pair of sleep pants and pulled a bowl of stew towards himself.

“Anything you need to say, get it out now while I’m too tired to become much upset,” Sherlock sighed.

“Really?” John asked, surprised. Sherlock discouraged talk about Satyrs in general, insisting it was just transport and that he wanted John to look beyond his body and focus on his mind.

“Yes, really,” Sherlock glared at him, his face slack with exhaustion, “Questions and comments allowed without my ranting on about prejudice. Go on, doctor, let’s see what your liberal mind has come up with.”

John snorted at the hypocritical statement and studied the pale face with soft brown markings, full light brown lips, and twitching (otherwise humanoid) nose. The mess of curls that fell down into Sherlock’s blue-green eyes and added a boyish charm to his face were offset by a small pair of horns just peaking out of his locks and curving backwards. His ears were lightly furred, large, curved, and moved expressively much as a goats would, each tipped with a bit of color as well. The most obvious difference to Sherlock was his lower torso, which John had never actually seen since he’d only known Sherlock during winter months. According to the internet it had a light to thick coating of fur, and Satyr were also said to be well hung, which accounted for John’s previous discomfort with the idea of a Buck lover. His feet, John knew, were hooves because it was almost impossible to cover those up. They were tapping now as he waited for John to quit staring at him and start talking.

“How do you manage without a Doe, and why wouldn’t you just go find one?”

“We aren’t animals. Why don’t you go find a human woman when you want to get off?”

“Because you demand my full attention for cases and chase off my dates by degrading them the second they step through the door.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and went back to his stew.

“How often does _that,_ ” John nodded towards Sherlock’s bedroom door, “Happen?”

“Once a year, usually. Though every male Satyr has a different schedule, this is my usual time. Yes, I can become aroused outside of Rut. Yes, I am capable of reproduction outside of Rut. No, I don’t plan to schedule my entire life around it. Yes, I can occasionally skip a year, even two years, though there has never been any conclusive evidence as to why that sometimes occurs. Supposedly it has to do with available mates. Yes, the presence of a Doe on her own Heat can trigger me to go into Rut prematurely.”

Sherlock took another big bite and John waited for him to swallow and glance up, raising one imperious eyebrow to acknowledge that he knew John still needed answers.

“There’s just… one more thing.” John started hesitantly.

“Yes?” Sherlock asked his eyebrow furrowing as John looked away guiltily.

“I may have used your hairbrush, and I’m thinking you aren’t going to want it back.”

“Did you fuck yourself with it?” Sherlock asked, his tone slightly scolding but otherwise unconcerned.

“Yeah, a bit.”

“Consider it a gift.”

John snorted and they both set off laughing. The tension eased and John waited until Sherlock was well and truly distracted to set a reminder in his phone for a few days ahead of next years Rut. He’d make sure he was well away from the brilliant detective. There was no way he was risking his friendship – or going through that nightmare alone in his room again – over a quick Rut.

[CHAPTER TWO](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/46722.html)


	2. Chapter 2

A few weeks later Sherlock made a major break on a case at a theater involving the theft of some papers on a naval officers person during the show. On their way out a group of reporters were waiting to photograph the detective who had solved the potentially damaging case. Sherlock was furious, of course, and demanded they cover up. Without thinking he tossed a hat to John and stuffed one over his own horned head. It wasn’t until they made it into a cab that John looked over and burst out laughing as Sherlock shouted at the cabbie start driving.

“What, pray tell, is so funny, doctor? Aside from the fact you’re ruining the work by making me _famous_.”

“You… you…” John pointed to Sherlock’s head.

Sherlock tugged it off and stared at it, frowning.

“It is a bit ugly, isn’t it?” Sherlock replied, but John was laughing too hard to explain to Sherlock he’d been wearing a dear stalker. True, Satyrs were closer to goats in appearance than deer, but they were called Bucks and Does, so it really didn’t halt the humor of the situation.

They met Lestrade at a restaurant down the road for a celebratory dinner, which Sherlock was practically panting for since he hadn’t eaten in a couple of days. He never ate while working; the berk thought it slowed him down. John had tried to explain to him that a series of light meals would _not_ slow him down, whereas starving himself would cause his body to burn itself for fuel, but he refused to listen to reason or scientific evidence.

_“I know my own body, John.” He had sniped._

So here they were, with Sherlock so hungry he was ready to eat the tablecloths. _That’s racist._ John thought, wincing at his own train of thought.

“Something wrong?” Lestrade asked.

“No, nothing. So what are you boys getting?”

“I’m going all out, you two do the same,” Lestrade announced cheerily, “Anything you want tonight, I mean it. My shout.”

“I think,” Sherlock nibbled on his lip as he glanced over the menu, “I’m going to start with a salad. Its been ages since I had salad, never stays fresh at ours.”

“That’s because you keep storing it on the top shelf and it gets frosty,” John chided, “Of course, you can’t put it on the bottom shelf, where fresh veggies belong, because that’s where the human remains go.”

“I wouldn’t have the fridge segregated at all if _someone_ hadn’t insisted, which would leave us plenty of shelves at the appropriate temperature for salad,” Sherlock countered in a whisper.

“ _Human remains_ , Sherlock,” John whispered back, leaning forward over his menu, “You want our food sharing shelf space with cadavers?”

“Yes. It’s just meat, John. There’s cow and chicken meat in there, too, and that never bothers you.”

“It might now you’ve…”

“Girls, girls! Come on! One night without mentioning,” Lestrade lowered his voice, “body parts. Please?”

“Fine,” They both grumbled.

“How you two manage I’ll never know,” Lestrade chuckled, shaking his head at them, “I mean, I know Sherlock’s a looker and all, but I’d be hard pressed to put up with what you do, John.”

Sherlock smirked and John gave Lestrade a horrified look.

“No! No, we’re not… Why would you even think that? We’ve gone drinking before, you’ve seen me pick up women!”

Lestrade blinked, clearly surprised, and replied with a shrug: “I thought you two had an open relationship. I mean, its Sherlock, I doubt he’d mind if you caught some tail-less tail on the side.”

“I don’t…” John started, and then his head shot towards Sherlock’s with a wide-eyed stare, “You have a tail?”

John winced again.

“Of course I have a tail,” Sherlock replied acerbically, “All Satyrs do. What sort of backwards nonsense were you reading on those websites?”

“I just… None of them mentioned a tail… How did you know I was looking up your biology? I never did that when you were around.”

“I check your history periodically; you know you really should clear it out, it isn’t foolproof, but it is better for the computer. Interesting choices lately, by the way.”

John’s face turned red and he looked back down at his menu in the hopes it would turn out to contain a magical portal that could take him away from this humiliating moment. Ever since Sherlock’s Rut he’d been looking up Satyr porn, and apparently they had an entire industry for it. Satyrs with Humans, Satyrs with other Satyrs, Satyrs in Rut and/or Heat trying to slake their unbelievable lust; he had spent hours staring at the screen in fascination.

“None of those video’s had tails in them,” John decided to complain.

“They cut them off for porn.” Sherlock replied, “Apparently they get in the way of the hotter sex scenes and deHumanize the stars; which in my opinion takes away from the fact that the individuals on the screen are Satyrs to begin with. Oh, and a proper Doe would _never_ shave her legs and other assorted parts, so if that filth you’re watching has that in it, do try not to let it imprint on your simple little mind.”

“That does seem a bit racist, the tail thing, I mean,” Lestrade added and John winced again at hearing his earlier thoughts echoed back at him.

“Sorry, did I kick you?” Sherlock asked, which caused John to glance up.

“Hm? No, why?”

“You keep wincing.”

“I’m not wincing.”

“You’ve done it three times now.”

“I don’t think I have.”

“You really are a _terrible_ liar, John.”

“Fine, yes, I winced. Leave it alone, yeah?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and turned his head aside as though that would make John’s thoughts visible, which on a genius like Sherlock might actually work, but soon dismissed John’s odd behavior in favor of looking up eagerly at the waitress.

“Hello, I’m Patty and I’ll be your serv…” The woman blinked in surprise at Sherlock, whose face remained stubbornly the same as it had been before she stuttered at the sight of him, “Excuse me, please.”

The woman left and Sherlock scowled at her back.

“Shit. I’ll get the manager,” Lestrade started to rise.

“No,” Sherlock cut him off, glancing back down at the menu.

“We can leave? Go someplace else?” John suggested nervously. He knew it was futile, though, Sherlock preferred to fight his way through prejudice rather than avoid it.

“No.” Sherlock replied stubbornly.

A different waitress was approaching them, cheery smile in place, and she didn’t flinch or stutter when Sherlock turned a rather cold eye on her.

“Sorry about Patty, folks, she got a call on her mobile. Apparently it’s an emergency.”

“Oh, I _do_ hope everything is alright,” Sherlock said with icy vindictiveness.

“Really? I was sort of hoping it wasn’t,” The waitress replied, giving him an equally chilled smile.

Both their smiles turned genuine and John felt as though he’d missed something.

“I’m Lucy, and _I’ll_ be your waitress today.”

“Lucy, eh?” Sherlock looked bemused, but John missed whatever the joke might have been.

“What can I get you?” Lucy asked, flipping her pad open.

Lestrade ordered first, getting their priciest steak and potatoes dish, John next with a chicken dish that came with a salad, and Sherlock ordered nearly the same as John with one exception:

“Do you have any wheatgrass salads? I checked the menu, but it didn’t detail the ingredients of the salads.”

“We don’t, I’m sorry, but we do have a lovely herb salad that comes highly recommended.” She didn’t add ‘by Satyrs’, but it was implied, “It has the usual lettuce and spring vegetables mix along with fresh parsley, chives, and dill. You don’t even need dressing, it’s that good.”

“I’ll have that, then, thank you.” Sherlock agreed, handing her his menu.

“Actually,” John spoke up on a whim; “I’ll switch my Caesar to the same as his. That sounds lovely.”

“Dressing for you?” Lucy asked.

“Ah, can you recommend one?” John floundered.

“Vinaigrette?”

“Perfect.”

The waitress left and Sherlock gave John that knowing smile that meant he’d figured something out.

“What?” John asked, hating himself for being unable to resist.

“You’re concerned you’re racist.” Sherlock stated.

“Oh, fucking hell, here we go.” Lestrade sighed, leaning back in his chair.

“No. No, I’m not. I’m certain I’m not.”

“No, you’re worried you’re racist.” Sherlock smirked, “Or that you’ll appear to be without meaning to, and that it will mean that deep down inside you _are.”_

“Sherlock, you are my _best_ friend. We spend every waking moment together, and a few unconscious ones as well thanks to a few hardened criminals with crowbars…”

“Oh, yeah,” Sherlock murmured, smiling at the memory.

“…Yeah, good times, that. So what on this green earth makes you think I’m racist?”

“Because you’re trying so hard _not_ to be,” Sherlock leaned forward, gesturing with one hand, “John, equality doesn’t mean everyone gets a fair share or that every single person has a proper term that isn’t offensive. Equality means that when you look through a crowded room you don’t see Satyrs and Humans, you see _people_ , and if asked you couldn’t relate how many of each there were _because it didn’t matter._ ”

“That would be awful at a crime scene,” Lestrade decided, “Especially a bank robbery.”

“You could not only pick out how many of each there were, Sherlock,” John snarled, “You could give a vivid description of what they were wearing, what they’d just eaten, and who they were sleeping with.”

“Yes, John, but I’m racist,” Sherlock stated, utterly straight-faced.

“You… you’re not…” John stuttered.

“Yes, I am. I’m quite prejudiced against Humans. No offense meant, of course,” Sherlock smirked.

“Oh, yeah, well, none taken!” John leaned back in his chair, staring at Sherlock in shock.

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic, we’ve just established you are as well,” Sherlock laughed.

“Yeah, well I’m not okay with that, Sherlock, maybe I want to better myself,” John snapped.

“You might try bettering your internet video selection first,” Sherlock teased, his smile sardonic.

“Sure, fantastic, got any recommendations?”

“Mmmm, none that come to mind, no.”

“What about you, Lestrade?” John asked, turning to him in a huff.

“Anything with bush. Those shaved broads creep me out.” Lestrade stated, a bit too loud.

A woman at the next table gave them a horrified look and they all burst out laughing.

“Sorry! Sorry, just got off work, still a bit punchy. We’ll keep it Kosher,” John laughed.

The woman sniffed and turned away dismissively.

Their salads arrived and John hummed appreciatively at his. He raised his eyes to see if Sherlock was enjoying his and just barely caught sight of the Faun smiling knowingly as Sherlock lowered his eyes back to his own food.

XXXXXXXX

_This just isn’t my fucking week._ John decided as he frantically tried to calm the Doe in front of him. One of her Kidds was starting to cry, and everyone was staring.

“Really, I didn’t mean anything by that, I’m not even sure what I said to upset you!”

The Doe was backing away from him slowly, her eyes narrowed, ears back, and children tucked behind her. A low growl in her throat completed the look of a woman who was determined to protect her Kidds, even if it meant bloodshed.

John and Sherlock had taken the tube that day because the cabs were apparently on strike, and even Sherlock’s mystical ability to call a cab- no matter where he was or what the time was- had failed them. So John had been standing waiting around aimlessly with the rest of the crowd when Sherlock had simply pulled one of his disappearing acts. John was craning his neck looking around when he felt a tug at his calf and looked down to see… a Kidd, not even tall enough to reach John’s knee. Big, wet brown eyes, brown curly hair, and a light spattering of freckles peered up at him. A little tail was waging happily behind him above his thickly furred legs. He’d never actually seen a Kidd before, and the adorable little wiggling button nose was buried against his calf… happily munching away on his trousers.

“Hey, now!” John had laughed, “All that synthetic material will ruin your supper!”

Then he’d scooped the tiny creature up – a glance down revealed the naked Kidd to be male – from the floor, intending on laying him over his shoulder before going to look for his mother. The mother, however, had spotted them first when the Kidd had given out a terrified squeal. She bolted over, tugging an older Kidd, also male, along behind her. She looked terrified, and he quickly put the baby Faun down in order to reassure her.

“It’s all right, he just got a mouthful of my trouser leg! Got away from you, did he?”

The Doe scooped her baby up, but did so by putting a hand under his rump and the other on his back instead of under his arms, and pressed him against the thin material covering her breasts. John wondered vaguely if he’d hurt the little creature, but the mother had just noticed the tear in his trousers and was visibly shaking.

“I’ll pay for them, honest! He’s just a baby! Please don’t report us!”

“Report you?” John replied, realizing she meant to the Satyr Control Squad who worked in tandem with the police to make sure Satyr still got just a bit fewer rights than Humans, “For a pair of old trousers? Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Really? I will pay for them… I… I don’t have the money now…”

“Don’t bother, it’s fine. I don’t mind. I was bound to tear them on something eventually anyway. You have lovely Kidds, by the way,” John smiled.

John craned his neck to get a better look at the blonde head of the older Fawn Kidd behind the mother- he looked about 10- but he immediately ducked further behind his mother before John could get a decent look at him. John raised his eyes back to the Doe’s face in time to see it do a 180 and become instantly hostile.

Which was what lead to John holding up his hands and protesting that he’d meant no insult, while a station full of people peered at him accusingly. He distinctly heard someone hiss _racist_ , but was more concerned with the fact she was lowering her head as though to ram him.

“Sherlock!” John called, looking about frantically.

“John! There you are, darling!” Sherlock breezed out of nowhere and pressed a kiss to John’s temple, his arm coming up around his shoulders, “I thought I… what on earth is going on? Is something the matter, madam?”

John’s head was spinning from the culmination of events, most specifically the part where he’d felt Sherlock’s lips on his skin, hot breath stirring his hair, and he found himself completely unable to move. Sherlock gave his shoulders a squeeze and John leaned into him gratefully.

“Unnnt ummng u t-t-t-t-ck iiiiiaaa.” The woman stated aggressively.

Her words brought John out of his state of shock and he gaped at her. It was beyond rude to speak Satyrese around Humans, if only because it was a foreign language, but also because Humans were actually incapable (so far) of learning it and generally found it frightening. Her tone was clear, though, she was accusing John of something.

“Clearly you’ve forgotten your manners,” Sherlock scolded, eyes narrowed, “As well as lost your mind. John would never do such a thing.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt him, I just picked him up,” John protested, “He was eating my trousers, and he’s so small, and it’s crowded, so I thought he’d be safer in my arms.”

“The Kidd is fine, John, she’s misunderstood the situation, didn’t you, Ma’am?” Sherlock asked, his tone frosty.

“I…” The Doe looked frightened and embarrassed again, “Yes, I’m sorry. I just… misunderstood.”

“Well,” John replied, pulling a bit away from Sherlock’s firm embrace, “I suppose these things happen.”

The train pulled up and John threw it a relieved look.

“Well that’s us. Ta!” Sherlock waved to her cheerfully and guided John towards the train. The woman was probably supposed to take the same one, but she held back, apparently out of humiliation.

It was standing room only and John ended up pressed tightly between Sherlock and the wall, holding onto his bicep since none of the handholds were in reach.

“What did I do?” He asked, completely baffled.

“You touched one of her Kidds, she probably thought you were going to abduct him. It’s not so long ago our children were ripped from their mother’s teats and sold at auctions, John.”

“She wasn’t upset about me picking him up, though, I explained why I’d done it. She was apologizing and offering to pay for my clothes!”

Sherlock frowned down at him, “What did you say that upset her?”

“You tell me! All I did was say she had lovely Kidds. Is that not the right word or something? Because this is getting terribly difficult to keep up with!”

“You commented on her Kidds appearance?”

“Yes, so? People do that Sherlock, they say ‘oh, what lovely children you have, your son looks just like you’. It’s normal!”

“Humans don’t say that sort of thing to Satyrs, John, she thought you were _interested_ in them.”

“You mean she thought I was a pe…” John couldn’t even spit out that disgusting word.

“Yes, John. Not every slave trader was interested in the _adult_ Satyrs.”

“Oh, god, that’s… that’s…”

“Awful? Horrible? Inhuman?” Sherlock suggested.

“Yes, the last, I think.”

Sherlock’s arm came around John again, squeezing him in a side-arm hug.

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For looking so horrified.”

Sherlock turned his head to glare out the window and John realized he wouldn’t be getting anything else from him. He kept a firm grip on Sherlock’s arm as they jolted along and tried not to focus on how good it felt to be this close to him.

[CHAPTER THREE](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/46989.html)


	3. vincentmeoblinn | Seduced By A Satyr Ch 3

The first time he staggered downstairs in search of coffee and breakfast and found Sherlock naked in the over-warm flat he simply grunted, and then turned around and headed back up to his room- Sherlock’s laughter following him the entire way. Once he’d steeled himself to not do anything incredibly awkward, like stare, drool, or start dry humping the Faun, he headed back down again with a muttered ‘forgot my book’ to cover his faux-pas. Sherlock only laughed more.

The Faun was draped across a kitchen chair with nothing more than a sheet around him, and he seemed to be using it more to catch shedding hair than to cover himself. John forcefully kept his eyes away from the nest of curly hairs he knew would be in the man’s lap. It didn’t help that he’d been wanking to thoughts of Satyrs ever since Sherlock’s Rut. It also didn’t help that he wanted to know what the creature’s bits looked like. It also didn’t help that he’d gone to an adult store and asked for a Satyr sized phallus only to be laughed out the door. He needed to know, and the video’s he’d watched never focused much on the male Satyrs privates; he also doubted their accuracy after that conversation with Sherlock.

“John?” Sherlock asked, prompting the Human to turn around, “Take a good look and get it out of your system.”

John froze, coffee cup in hand and toast halfway to his mouth. Sherlock had stood up and was standing with legs slightly apart and arms spread wide like Leonardo DaVinci’s Satyr equivalent of the Divine Proportion. John stood still and gaping for a moment before glancing at Sherlock’s face, but upon finding him perfectly serious and forthright decided he could be as scientifically cold as the Satyr was. John put his coffee and toast down and took a good look at his friend, moving from side to side to get a better look.

Sherlock’s lower half was as thin and willowy as the rest of him, covered in medium length brown and tan fur that curled just a bit. The ‘nest of curls’ was actually far less built up than he’d imagined and he swallowed a bit at the size of Sherlock’s limp, brown, uncut member hanging therein. It was larger than John’s penis was while flaccid, but it wasn’t something to be terrified of. Of course, perhaps the man was a grower and not a show-er? The bollocks beneath were completely hidden by hair, but John could see the outline and they were unsurprisingly large. It made sense since Fauns were practically _made_ for mating.

_Racist, John! Racist! And perverted! Bloody hell, I’m getting hard._

“Turn?” Sherlock asked, and John nodded.

_That_ was something to behold, and this time on a scientific level as well as erotic. John had always noted the incredibly sultry way the man walked, hips swaying almost obscenely, and now he saw why; those hoofed feet weren’t meant to be walked on upright, and Sherlock had to sway his hips to keep the balance. The muscles on his legs looked hard and powerful, and John shivered at the thought of feeling them against his backside.

“How do you keep from slipping?” John asked, to cover his arousal.

“Non-Slip Grip Pads, the kind you’d put on a woman’s high heels to stop her from sliding all over a marble floor. I refresh them daily, sometimes multiple times a day when it’s particularly wet out.”

“Fascinating.”

“Most public buildings are required to provide a secured, carpeted walkway, anyway, but it pays to be prepared.”

“I’ll bet.”

John was covering and he knew he was. His eyes were glued to Sherlock’s pert little tail, which twitched a bit as he stared at it. If he hunkered down he’d be able to see the man’s entrance, but he wasn’t about to be _that_ obvious. Sherlock turned again and John jerked his face upward, blushing as he mentally catalogued every tan freckle and the precise place the hair started to thicken immediately beneath his belly button.

“Alright doctor?”

“Yes, it’s fine. Of course. Best to get the initial curiosity out of the way. I’d offer a return, but you’ve probably seen more Humans naked than I have,” John babbled helplessly, flushing even more.

Sherlock blinked for a moment then, “Oh! You mean on a slab?”

“Yes, quite, oh god, of course I meant that!”

Sherlock laughed and John joined him self-deprecatingly.

John forced himself to sit despite the aching hardness in his pants, glad the robe covered him enough to hide it, but also aware that Sherlock had probably noted his arousal anyway.

“Have you ever found a human attractive? Or is that not your area, either?” John teased lightly, hoping to throw the man off while getting a bit of information.

“Hmmm,” Was Sherlock’s barely-there reply, John decided it sounded like a ‘no’ and felt a bit disheartened at that. Sherlock had taken up the morning paper again and was back to being sprawled across the chair with apparent ease.

“You know, if you’re uncomfortable with all that hair I wouldn’t mind paying the extra power cost to have some window A/C’s put in.”

“I’m quite comfortable, actually, it’s more the _shedding_ for the first few hot days that is an absolute nightmare. That reminds me, do run the hoover later, won’t you?”

“Ahh, yeah, yeah sure. Do Satyrs often find Humans attractive? You know, you don’t think of it going the other way round, like that day on the tube last week.”

“Sorry? Other way round?” Sherlock asked, giving him a distracted half-glance.

“Racism. I mean, the unconscious kind, because I can’t fault that Doe her reaction.”

“I’ve never thought of lack of attraction as a type of prejudice before,” Sherlock stated, staring off into the distance as he analyzed the thought, “But you do have a point there. Hmmm. I don’t think I know of any Satyrs who are attracted to Humans, but it may just be too soon. Most are still being cautioned by their parents that Humans are evil, lazy, sex-crazed monsters who want to torture them during their estrus cycles and force them to keep house for them. I know that’s what I was told growing up, and I doubt my peers had it otherwise.”

“Is that why you won’t clean up after yourself?”

“Yes, it’s a non-violent protest,” Sherlock stated sarcastically.

John sighed and went back to his paperback and coffee. A few minutes later and he couldn’t abide the silence any longer.

“I don’t see you like that. I really don’t.”

“I know you don’t.”

“I mean it, Sherlock, I won’t deny your Rut threw me, I think we both know that, but I don’t see you as some sort of sex toy with just enough sense to… to… scrub a floor.”

Sherlock didn’t reply for a moment, either out of embarrassment or because he had already stated his thoughts and hated to repeat himself, but eventually he put the paper down and stood up to fetch some more coffee for himself. He fetched John’s usual morning apple from the fridge at the same time and placed it at his elbow.

_And doesn’t that just say more than words can?_ John thought, smiling and calling out a thank you to the retreating, sheet draped form.

XXXXXXXXXX

John was up in his room blogging about a few small cases they’d solved days before when Sherlock barged into his bedroom with that usual casual disregard for privacy he always showed. John had taken to locking his door and putting a chair beneath it while wanking since the bastard had even picked it once, walked in, and demand John dress for a case. Luckily, this time his online activities were purely innocent.

“John,” Sherlock stated, narrowing his eyes at him, “We really need to work on your deductive skills.”

“Alright, well I’ve got the time now. What’s the first lesson?”

“If I don’t give you a solid reply, chances are I’m lying,” Sherlock informed.

“Oh, I… Does this have to do with anything specific?”

“Yes.”

“When we were at breakfast and you didn’t answer my question? About finding Humans attractive?” John deduced.

“Correct.”

“Alright, who then?” He decided to pursue.

“You can’t deduce that on your own?” Sherlock asked, leaning against the door and letting his sheet slip down.

John followed its path with his eyes and swallowed hard as his mouth took on the humidity of a desert.

“Perhaps you’d like a practical demonstration of all that rubbish you’ve been watching online, eh?” Sherlock suggested, sucking on a fingertip seductively.

John moved his laptop onto the bedside table and pulled out a vial of lubricant before tossing the bed sheets aside to reveal himself naked beneath his open robe, his cock already rising in anticipation.

“Perhaps I would,” John smiled confidently and crooked his finger at the almost shy look on Sherlock’s face.

Sherlock crawled up the foot of the bed, saucy hips tilting from side to side as his tail pointed to the ceiling, eyelids slightly lowered in a near predatory look. John went to move forward, but Sherlock held out a hand and pressed gently against his sternum.

“You won’t need to move, John, and you won’t need that lubricant, either. We make our own, you know.”

_Not perfectly accurate… never mind!_

“You mean…?” John’s breath caught in his throat.

“Yes. I want you inside me, doctor, as quickly as possible,” Sherlock licked those full, light-brown lips that so perfectly resembled lipstick, and John gripped him by one horn so he could hold him steady while plundering that eager mouth.

Flash to the moment when Sherlock sank down on his cock, moaning hungrily and gasping a bit at the size of him.

“Oh, god, John! I didn’t think you’d be so _big_.”

“Mmmm, you like that, do you? Filthy little Billy.”

“Yes! Yes!” Sherlock was bouncing up and down in his lap now, head thrown back in ecstasy while John stroked his hands through the silken fur on his hips and upper thighs. He reached around and gripped the shapely globes of his arse with firm-handed authority and forced the Satyr into a faster canter.

“That’s it, ride my Human cock! You love it, don’t you?”

“Yes! John! Yes! Oh! Uhnnn, no one’s ever touched me like this before!”

John decided that was a perfect moment to lean forward and trail his tongue across the Faun’s nipples, lathing each with attention before giving the Faun a playful slap on the arse. It must have been appreciated because Sherlock cried out in bliss and clenched around his cock as he…

…That was the end of it for John, who came across his well-lubed hand with a muffled cry and much bucking of hips. His vision of a debauched Sherlock Holmes faded and guilt replaced it. He didn’t just have to _toss off_ to the idea of his best mate becoming a wanton creature lusting after his prick; he had to call him a _Billy_ in the midst of it as well? John cleaned himself up with perfunctory swipes of a shirt from the dirty clothesbasket and flopped back down on his bed in disgust.

“Racist indeed, and a pervert. You just couldn’t leave well enough alone, could you?” John scolded himself, wondering how he’d face his friend once again with this new image of him in his mind.

From downstairs came a shout from Mrs. Hudson, and John was quickly tugging on his clothes to see what had her distressed.

XXXXXXXXXX

Thirty minutes later and John was hunkering over a corpse by a stream arguing with Sherlock over having been in Dublin when the man decided he wouldn’t leave the flat for cases less than a ‘seven’.

“It’s hardly my fault you weren’t listening,” Sherlock stated, apparently annoyed.

He passed the computer to the lead detective so Sherlock could ream him out, but when he got it back Sherlock was looking at someone off screen who he clearly wasn’t expecting to pay a call. Sherlock glanced at the computer with an indecipherable look before a hand cut it off and the connection ended.

John had a moment of panic before a bloody _helicopter_ landed for him. After that was a rather fun ride to… Buckingham Palace?

John experienced a moment of horror when he was led through a door to see Sherlock, still sheet draped, sitting on a couch. The first thought in his mind was that he’d gone into an off-schedule Rut and been sexually assaulted- that Mycroft or some other unbelievably upper echelon friend he’d gotten off a murder charge stepping in to console him; but the man’s lackadaisical attitude convinced him otherwise. He hesitated a moment, then sat down beside his current masturbatory fantasy despite the porn-script surroundings.

While it was true that Fauns were exempt from any clothing laws- prompting the removal of ‘No Shirt, No Shoes, No Service’ signs around the bloody world- aside from covering their genitals (Doe’s were only required to wear tops) but this was taking things a bit far.

“Are you wearing any pants?” John asked.

“No,” That same deadpan he’d used in the restaurant when faced with a narrow-minded staff member.

“Oh.”

That broke the ice and they snickered like schoolboys. Moments later Mycroft’s appearance, dressed impeccably as always in Human clothes, spurred on more tittering and Sherlock’s usual argumentative taunts. John silently stood by his decision not to dress. Sherlock wasn’t required to put trousers on and John was feeling more than a bit rebellious in the face of all of this swank.

When Mycroft put his custom shod Satyr foot down on Sherlock’s sheet John’s cock gave an excitable twitch in his trousers and John glared at Mycroft accusingly before he could stop himself. Luckily the man was distracted, or he probably would have deduced it all and taken John down a peg.

Finally Mycroft secured his younger brother’s proper behavior, but Sherlock stubbornly dropped the sheet and changed into clothes right then and there. John was caught out and stared unashamedly at the man before remembering himself and looking away. He caught Mycroft’s narrow-eyed gaze instead, but the man was blessedly silent on the matter.

Their case, as it turned out to be, proved to be the most challenging John had ever seen Sherlock faced with. It also proved that Sherlock _could_ be attracted to Humans, at least to human women, as John saw him clearly disoriented by Irene Adler’s rather intense charm. John tried to smother the irrational jealousy he felt, especially whenever he heard Sherlock’s mobile go off with that satisfied sigh. Still, when The Woman turned out to be alive instead of dead he was immediately ready to strangle her if she didn’t tell Sherlock the truth. It wasn’t like he had cause to claim Sherlock anyway; he was dating Human women himself.

“You _flirted_ with Sherlock Holmes?” John questioned, his anger and frustration barely below the surface as he faced The Woman- the one woman Sherlock had ever reacted to as long as John had known him.

“ _At_ him. He never replies,” She smiled at her mobile.

John had to argue that statement out and didn’t like the knowing look on her face when she asked him if that made her special.

“Are you jealous?” A definite teasing look on her face.

“We’re not a couple.”

“Yes you are.” She stated with a verbal eye roll, and wasn’t that just painful? Because in his heart of hearts, they _were_ a couple but he could no more verbally acknowledge it than Sherlock would physically.

Irene sent the text and might have gone on to further discuss their mutually frustrating positions in Sherlock’s asexual life, but a soft sigh echoed in the large factory space and they both froze. John would have chased after those quickly retreating footsteps, but she stopped him in his tracks with the most vulnerable expression on her face that John had ever seen.

“No I don’t think so, do you?”

XXX

**Crime in Progress  
Please Disturb**

_Oh, bloody hell, Sherlock._

Mrs. Hudson was practically a mother to Sherlock, and John suspected the American got away with less than Sherlock wanted to give him for harming her. Still, they were all relatively unharmed, and John supposed that was what counted. So, back upstairs to 221B and life as usual, except they both knew The Woman was alive somewhere.

“Do you think you’ll be seeing her again?”

“Happy New Year, John.”

XXX

Sherlock never did answer him, but John saw the far away look in his face and felt his heart break just a little bit more, but not nearly as much as when Sherlock looked relieved at his lie over her being alive and well in America after she really _had_ died. He had wanted to believe Sherlock had hated her after her horrid betrayal, even if her true affection for him had been made known, but nothing was more clear than Sherlock displaying _sentiment_ over her erased camera phone. Still, John handed it over, and went up to his room to wonder if he was too old to cry over a hopeless crush.

[CHAPTER FOUR](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/47176.html)


	4. vincentmeoblinn | Seduced By A Satyr Ch 4

I learned a new word today. Cordwainers. <http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cordwainer>  
Our romp through Hounds of Baskerville will be brief, I promise.

 

Now that John had made peace with his attraction to Sherlock it became agonizing whenever people confused them for a couple. The Cross Keys in Dartmore was probably the worse moment, because he was face to face with a mixed racial couple. The Human chatted John up amicably, and asked if John’s (meaning Satyr, meaning Sherlock) was a snorer. John nearly blanked out; realizing he was about to find out if Sherlock snored since the room he’d just thoughtlessly booked had one double bed. He diverted them by asking for crisps.

_This is how pathetic I’ve gotten, I’m excited by the prospect of learning if he snores or not. My gosh, I’ve lowered myself to the rank of crazed fan. I could have argued about the bed and didn’t. I’m bordering on stalker, no, I’ve crossed that border and wandered straight into ‘watching him sleep at night’._

John’s thoughts were interrupted by Sherlock making a bet with John while talking to a young man about the ‘demon hound’ they were pursuing, but it resulted in John getting a few pounds out of it, so he was doubly relieved.

XXX

John had to be seeing things, because there was no way the look Sherlock gave him when he pulled rank at Baskerville was _aroused,_ it simply wasn’t possible.

XXX

Their last night in Dartmore was the only time their sleep actually synced up, especially since Sherlock rarely slept during a case. John was trying to act as casual as possible, to the point he’d managed to put it out of his mind, right up until they entered the room and Sherlock had given the double bed a concerned look.

“Something wrong?”

“A bit, yes. There’s only one bed.”

“We’re both adults, I’m sure we can manage,” John laughed lightly, “We can face opposite directions if you want. I can have my head at the foot of the bed. That better?”

“I imagine that would be worse,” Sherlock replied, looking truly troubled.

John’s mind had just wandered off on how much ‘worse’ it would be, complete with moaning and slurping noises, when Sherlock spoke again: “I’ve never spent a night in a bed with a _Human_ before.”

John spent a full minute simply gaping at him, trying to decide between disgust, anger, and hurt when Sherlock saw his face and corrected his thought.

“My _hooves_ , John. I could seriously harm you if I kicked a bit in my sleep. My kind have thicker skin, but you…”

“Oh. Oh! Right! I… ahhhh, well the innkeepers seem to manage.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes: “I’m sure they have some sort of booties they put on at night.”

“Booties?” John chuckled, but Sherlock’s scowl sobered him up, “Right, then. I’ll take the chair.”

“Why?”

“Why not?”

“Why are you offering to take the chair?” Sherlock asked, his voice taking on a suspicious note.

“Again, why not?” John asked, baffled.

“I asked you first.”

“Are we _really_ doing this Sherlock?” John asked, but Sherlock folded his arms and tapped one hoof against the floor, “ _Fine_. I should take the chair because I slept the last few nights, at least for a few hours each night, and you didn’t. Also, I’m an army man and I’ve slept in worse places than a doily covered plush armchair. Foxholes come to mind, actually. Sleeping upright isn’t a problem for me, whereas you’re so tired you look like _standing_ upright isn’t going to be an option for much longer.”

Sherlock cocked his head to one side and glanced away, eyebrows furrowed.

“You do make a good argument,” Sherlock admitted.

“Yes, I do, now will you please let me take the chair, Sherlock? _Oh, please, oh, please, oh, please_?” John whinged sarcastically.

“There’s no reason to be sarcastic, John.” Sherlock sighed.

“What did you _think_ my reason was?”

“That you didn’t want to seem racist by taking the bed yourself.”

“You need to get one thing through your head _right now_ Sherlock. The entire world does not revolve around you having horns and a bloody tail. I don’t _care_. You’re my mate and that’s the end of it. Yeah, I’ll get uncomfortable sometimes. You will, too. That happens between friends, even of the same race. So stop bloody harping on it!”

“Duly noted,” Sherlock replied, giving him a polite nod and a respectful glance.

“Good… right then,” John took a deep breath and calmed himself, “I’m going to change for bed. You mind if I do that here?”

“Not at all.”

John shimmied out of his clothes, deciding a change of pants was in order and dropping those too after some consideration. He dropped his sleep pants and had to bend over to retrieve them, not really bothered after his time in the army, but Sherlock made a startled sound. John refused to look to see why. They settled quickly after that, Sherlock sleeping stark naked, but John was used to that by now. Sherlock’s next Rut was just around the corner, and summer again after that, which meant he’d be seeing Sherlock naked on a daily basis while being fully aware that it was this Faun in particular who excited him, rather than Satyrs in general. At least he wore clothes to crime scenes; John didn’t know if he’d be able to handle examining a corpse with an erection.

At some point in the night one of John’s horrid nightmares woke him with a shout and Sherlock was at his side before John could even rub the sleep from his eyes.

“Sorry, nightmare,” John explained, embarrassed.

“I gathered, you alright?” Sherlock was squatting in front of him in the darkened room, his hand resting on John’s knee for balance.

“It was that mine going off earlier, it got me going again,” John replied, running a hand through his hair.

“Afghanistan?”

“Among other places I’ve visited and other atrocities I’ve seen, yeah.”

“Come to bed,” Sherlock whispered back.

“Hmm?”

“You heard me, don’t make me say it again,” Sherlock stood up and headed back for the bed and John clamored to follow. Sherlock made room for him and John slipped in, lying facing the wall, “I have to face you, John. In order to avoid kicking you.”

“That’s fine. I’m not bothered. Army, remember?”

“More adventurous than you’ve told me?” Sherlock teased lightly.

“No, just lonely and scared a lot. More than one bloke I knew spent the night as close as they could get to their chums. It didn’t have to be sexual, just… comforting.”

“Glad you understand that,” Sherlock replied, and slipped an arm around John’s waist.

John’s breath caught in his throat and Sherlock started to pull his arm away, but he grasped his wrist. They both held still for a while, then relaxed simultaneously. John was throbbing with desire, but just having Sherlock close was so brilliant he didn’t dare try to take things further, after all Sherlock had made his intentions clear. So John spent a mostly sleepless night with Sherlock curled against him, his breath teasing his neck and his soft snores eventually soothing him into a deep, if short, sleep. He awoke when Sherlock stirred, long before the sun rose as always, and was just barely alert enough to realize he’d felt something hard pressed against his backside before Sherlock had moved. He lay still, breathing slowly and evenly as Sherlock dressed and breezed out the door. Once he was sure the man wasn’t coming back he snatched up a handful of tissues, gripped his cock, and came with only a few frantic strokes.

“Oh, god, Sherlock,” John breathed, trembling with the force of his several times neglected desires. He quickly binned the tissue, staggered out of the bed and dressed for the day. He had a Satyr to face and it would require every ounce of sanity he had left.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

A few weeks later at Baker Street, John had woken up to find Sherlock angrily gluing a strip of sandpaper to his hoof.

“How are you going to get that off later?”

“Ammonia, acetone, I’ll think of something later.”

“Sherlock…”

“Lestrade called with a _case_ , John!”

John quit arguing and knelt down to help the frustrated Faun. It had been a week since their last case and the Satyr had been driving him round the bend. The case was on the twelfth floor of a private business building, which wouldn’t normally be a problem, but the nearby stores had all stopped carrying women’s Anti-Slip Shoe Pads. It was a concerted effort on the part of the Cordwainers Union (#352) to show their anti-Satyrism stance before elections.

“Just promise me you’ll let me help you remove it later, yeah?” John requested, but secured no promise whatsoever as he used a hair dryer set on cool to speed dry the glue, “Where did you get this from?”

“How do you think I shower daily _and_ wear pants?”

“Oh. Right. Yeah, that makes sense. Is that why the couch was wet so often over the summer?”

“Oh, very funny,” Sherlock put his foot down on a plate on the floor and slid it back and forth to test his stability. John winced, but he didn’t put enough pressure on it to break it.

They were out the door in short order with John hurrying worriedly behind him. Sherlock had fallen down a set of marble stairs in front of a museum earlier in the week and ended up rather badly bruised. John had just been relieved it hadn’t been worse.

Enter the fourteen-story building with a mass murder in a conference room on the twelfth floor. Sherlock made it through the lobby with ease only to halt angrily at the signs on the elevators proclaiming them to be out of order. The noise of frustration and anger he made was the closest John had ever heard to a ‘goat’ noise, and he gave him a worried look as they headed towards the stairs.

“Are you alright?” John asked as he slammed through the doors to the stairs, gripped the rail, and started climbing them as if they were made from the bones of his oppressors.

“No, I’m not alright. Would you be alright if I took your shoes away and demanded you walk on oil without falling?”

“Hey, I’m on _your_ side, remember?” John asked, following Sherlock closely in case he should tumble.

“Are you, John?” Sherlock stopped, turning on the second level and facing John, his hand hardly ever leaving the rail, it’s grip so tight that his knuckles were white, “If it came down to it, down to a decision, me or a Human, who would it be?”

“You.”

“What if it were Lestrade?”

“You.”

“Stamford?”

“You.”

“Your latest girlfriend, whatever the buggering fuck her name is?!”

“I don’t have a girlfriend at the moment, I’m too busy to date. Sherlock, I’ve killed for you, risked my life for you, I was willing to sacrifice it for you at the pool, and I still am now. It will always be you. Point me at your enemies and watch me tear them down, but don’t make me one of them. I can’t fight myself.”

The rage drained out of Sherlock’s face and he regarded John with a blank face, his breath puffing out of his twitching nose.

“I…” Sherlock stopped, looking away uncomfortably.

“It’s fine, Sherlock. I’m right behind you. I’ll catch you if you fall.”

Sherlock leaned forward and caught John around the back of his neck with his free hand. John stepped closer, but the Faun only stared at him in silence before releasing him and turning to continue his climb. Around the sixth floor, when they were both running tired, Sherlock slipped and toppled back into John. He caught him round the shoulders, gripping the rail and planting his feet. Sherlock scrabbled for purchase and pulled himself upright without a word. Two floors later he toppled again and this time they both went down, John twisting himself to cushion Sherlock’s blow and earning himself a painful scrape across his shin from one of his hoofs and a few bruises. Sherlock sat on a step, fuming and glaring murderously at the bleeding cut on John’s calf as he pulled out a small first aid kit and bandaged it up.

“Shins always bleed badly, it’s not as awful as it looks. Barely hurts.”

John stood, but Sherlock remained where he sat, clearly in a strop and ready to huff back down the stairs or perhaps sit himself there until a crime came to him right there in the stairwell.

“I’ll carry you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I will. I’ve done it before; when The Woman drugged you I carried you outside. I didn’t want to leave you to flag down the police when the berks got lost.”

“You’re tired and I’m heavy.”

“I’ll manage. What’s easier for you, bridal style or on my back?”

Sherlock looked thoroughly disgusted, but finally picked bridal style on the basis it wouldn’t pull them both backwards down the stairs.

“On the way down you’ll do piggy-back,” Sherlock informed him as John scooped him up.

“Oh, good, I love it when you mix it up a bit,” John joked.

“Save your breath, you’re going to need it.”

Sherlock was right. Those four flights of stairs were excruciating and every muscle in his body felt like it was on fire. They stopped on each floor so John could catch his breath and he stripped his jacket, sweater, and shirt off after only one floor.

When they finally staggered through the doors on the twelfth floor John had a full sheen of sweat coating him and was puffing heavily. Lestrade saw them before John could locate a safe place to put Sherlock down since the floor was a solid sheen of polished tiles all around them.

“Bloody hell, are you alright?” Lestrade asked, hurrying forward in concern, “Did he fall?”

“No, we’re just married. Want to kiss the bride?” Sherlock taunted, waving John’s bunched up sweater as though it were a bouquet.

John laughed through his heaving breaths and Lestrade motioned him over to a carpeted room. It was not the crime scene, for which Sherlock complained loudly, but John leaned gratefully against a cold wall and tried to catch his breath. He knew if he sat he wouldn’t be getting back up again; his muscles would cramp up.

“There’s a loo down the hall, already processed so you can use it to clean up a bit,” Lestrade advised, but John shook his head.

“Not… leaving… him, he’ll… do… something… stupid.” John panted.

“I’ll keep him from breaking his neck, go on then.”

John gave Sherlock a warning glare and accepted his undershirt back from him before heading to the restroom. He used copious amounts of paper towels and cold water until he felt somewhat human, donned his undershirt, and headed back.

“Oof, you’re ripe!” Sally commented when John walked through the door.

“Piss off,” John snarled, not in the mood for the racist woman’s comments.

“Yes, do,” Sherlock agreed, “Besides I’ve never understood you Humans and your fascination with removing scents from your bodies. What’s more beautiful than a lover’s scent? Isn’t that right, Anderson?”

“What are you implying?” Anderson asked with a scowl.

“He’s saying he doesn’t bathe,” Sally sneered, “Which I could have told you easily. Their kind never does.”

“Actually I was referring to Anderson’s new floral fabric softener, but then I suppose you’ll tell me Sergeant Donovan recommended it to you?”

“As a matter of fact, I did,” Donovan countered calmly. They were getting used to Sherlock’s rhetoric.

“Just don’t shed hairs all over my crime scene,” Anderson snarled.

Sherlock continued examining the corpse laden room while John downed a second bottle of water from the machine outside, suffering the brain freeze in order to restore his dehydrated body.

“John take a look at this,” Sherlock called, and John hurried forward to study the men in the room.

“That’s… odd.”

“Odd indeed.”

The four corpses were covered with rashes from head to toe, and some of them were foaming at the mouths. They had all died of asphyxiation, likely from poison or allergen. There was an empty benedryl box on the table. One of the men had died in his chair, two on the floor beside them, and the fourth had apparently been crawling towards the door in search of help.

“You said radiation and airborn toxins were ruled out already, Lestrade?” John asked.

“Yeah, hazmat came through here before we did, so blame them if the scenes ruined. The only person who saw these fellows besides us, hazmat, and the killers was the woman who found them, Miss Garnet; that gentleman’s secretary. Miss Garnet came upstairs to tell Mr. Thomson his wife was in the hospital and he was needed urgently. She’s passed an hour ago, but it was natural causes. She had diabetes and went into a diabetic coma this morning. Neighbor found her in her garden. Any ideas?”

“Two so far,” Sherlock replied.

“Just two?” John asked in surprise.

“You did not labor for naught, John, this is quite the case.”

“A ten?”

“An eleven, but only because our murderess is so very cruel. I don’t think she cares if she is caught, but we may still have trouble finding her if Mr. Thomson didn’t keep a good record of his liaisons.”

“You’re thinking mistress?”

“Only a woman would be this vicious when scorned, but no… he didn’t take the key back and she was expecting this… No, she found something out about him. John, take down all of their pants.”

John obeyed, despite the alarm of the individuals watching.

“I thought so, the worse of the poison is on their genitals and anuses.”

“A suppository? They were all forced to take… Oh!”

“Clever and cruel indeed.” Sherlock nodded.

Lestrade helped steady John as he carried Sherlock down the stairs on his back, though he had offered to carry him in turns both Human and Satyr had refused. By the time John collapsed into a cab he was in agony, but the look on Sherlock’s face was worth it as he fussed over John on his way up to the flat. John was handed some paracetamol, a glass of water, and shoved into the loo. He downed it and Sherlock undressed him before stuffing him into a barely warm shower. John knew he had to switch it to hot despite the relief his overheated skin felt at the cool water, but was surprised when Sherlock leaned into the shower a few minutes in and stuffed the plug in.

“A soak will be better for your muscles,” He advised, turning the switch to fill the tub and changing it over to hot. John carefully lowered his aching body into the water with Sherlock’s help.

“Shout if you need anything,” Sherlock added as he wandered out of the bathroom.

John leaned back and stared off into space as the room filled with steam. Worth it, indeed.

Twelve hours later Mr. Thomson’s mistress was arrested. She had gone through the entire house switching the contents of all the sugar-free foods with sugar filled versions of the same thing, right down to the wife’s favorite biscuits. She had then placed adder venom in Mr. Thomson’s lube, which he kept in his brief case.

Apparently she had discovered that his monthly board meetings were actually monthly fuck sessions and decided she wasn’t going to share him with his wife _and_ three middle-aged men. The men had smothered themselves in lubricant and fucked the poison into each other’s bodies. Since it was applied rectally instead of intravenously it took some time to hit their system. They were sitting down to their _actual_ board meeting when the first of them began to have a reaction. Realizing it was from the lubricant, they had stayed in the room in order to hide their relationship from the rest of the company and tried taking Benadryl to stop the symptoms. By the time they realized it wasn’t a simple prank, such as pepper in their lubricant, they were well on their ways to death.

[CHAPTER FIVE](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/47472.html)


	5. vincentmeoblinn | Seduced By A Satyr Ch 5

“ **Bold** ” = Speaking Greek

 

In the weeks that followed the Twelfth Floor Vengeance, Sherlock’s attitude towards John changed dramatically once again. John realized that, just like after The Pool, Sherlock had taken the events to heart and re-evaluated their relationship. After The Pool he had become more open and relaxed with John, turning from flat mates and colleagues to best mates who solved crimes and blogged. They became a team, working together in tandem, with hardly a word required between them in the more tense moments.

Now Sherlock treated him like an equal, and John hadn’t even realized the subtle ways he hadn’t before. Now when John wanted or needed something, Sherlock might get it for him if he wasn’t busy. While he had followed him occasionally to see what he was up to before, now he sometimes tagged along, happily trotting after him while he did the shopping or visited Stamford. He tried to be polite to John’s friends and sister, though that was clearly a challenge for him, and John suspected he might even stop sabotaging his dates; if John had any desire to date anymore.

Then there was the touching. It was something that John had noticed before and he had always assumed that Sherlock had some sort of aphephobia, which had caused him to shy away from casual contact. Apparently he had been wrong, because he suddenly found Sherlock almost invading his personal space as he leaned across John to reach things instead of walking around, touched his shoulder during conversation, or even leaned against him while they watched television. What he had thought to be an immense sacrifice on Sherlock’s part while in Dartmore turned out to be something he was not only comfortable with, but also eager to initiate. John eagerly responded, putting an arm around Sherlock while they watched shows, leaning into his casual touches, and gently touching his hip whenever he leaned past him.

The only issue John had was that he didn’t know if this was some form of sexual intimacy or casual intimacy. Sherlock seemed eager to be physically close to John, but from what he knew about Satyrs they were a very tactile race. Finally he decided the best thing to do would be to broach the subject, so one night while they were watching a movie and Sherlock decided to abandon his side of the couch for a cuddle, John grabbed the remote, hit pause, and turned to face him.

Sherlock gave him an annoyed look, but he’d been almost constantly erect for weeks and he wasn’t about to back down now.

“Sherlock, not that I’m not thrilled, because I am, but what’s going on here?”

Sherlock blinked and gave him the look that implied he was waiting for further data before proceeding.

“I mean,” John tried, “What do you want from me?”

“Nothing at all,” Sherlock replied, his brow furrowed, “If I wanted something from you, I’d tell you to go get it.”

John laughed a bit, shaking his head.

“I mean, what’s with all the touching? You never did that before I hauled you up and down all those stairs, so what does it mean?”

“If it bothers you…”

“It doesn’t, not at all. I just want to know where I stand with you, that’s all.”

Sherlock looked down, tugging fibers from the couch, and seemed to be searching for how to explain himself. John waited patiently, but when Sherlock chose to pull away he stubbornly pulled him back.

“Talk to me. Please. I know it’s a pain to articulate things to me sometimes, what with me being so much dimmer intellectually than you, but it’s what I need so there aren’t any misunderstandings,” John teased lightly.

“There isn’t a word for it in your language, nothing except ‘herd’ and that’s so… Animal.”

John winced at the racial slur, but nodded his understanding.

“Can you teach me what that word means, even if I don’t know the actual word?”

“It means we protect each other, are comfortable with each other, are like family but not related by blood or marriage, are willing to die or kill for each other, and understand each other. It means I’m comfortable with you, in ways I am not with other Humans. In ways I could only be with another Satyr. It means I think of you as… as a Satyr.” Sherlock winced, glancing up through his curls to see if that comparison had offended John.

“I’m honored,” He replied truthfully, and tried to hide his disappointment. He was hoping this night would end with at least a snog, but it seemed the touches were exactly what he’d thought they might be. Casual.

Sherlock smiled softly and snatched up the remote, turning their movie back on and snuggling back against John’s side with his hooves tucked up on the couch. John slipped his arm around Sherlock’s waist, head on his shoulder, and smiled as the movie resumed with a loud explosion and flashes of fire. This was fine. He could live with this. It was lonesome at night, and he really ought to buy stock in lubricant to benefit a bit from his frequent use of it, but he could survive loving Sherlock if the man at least cared back.

XXX

“First you’re going to need to learn Greek,” Sherlock stated, slamming a gigantic book down onto the table in front of him.

John blinked at it in horror before looking up at Sherlock in confusion.

“I’m not going to Greece for my holiday, I’m going to Dublin to visit Harry.”

John was staying with Harry until Sherlock’s Rut was over. Since it was not predictable down to the day he was taking a two-week holiday, with the previous years Rut date falling right in the middle. Sherlock had assured John that it would be an acceptable stretch and that he’d text him if it still hadn’t occurred by the time he was expected back.

“I know that,” Sherlock replied, rolling his eyes, “But while you’re there you might as well learn Greek. It’s important. All Satyrs know Greek, and since Humans can’t speak Satyrese, this will have to do.”

“I think I’d do better with an audio book,” John stated, leafing through the dusty tome.

“Fine,” Sherlock replied, giving John a disgusted look, “But take that anyway. I’ll expect you to know how to read and write it as well.”

“Sherlock, you do realize I won’t be able to learn an entire language in just two weeks, don’t you? Sherlock?”

The Satyr, however, had stalked off to fiddle with his lab equipment and John knew he wouldn’t be getting the man’s attention back anytime soon. So John listened to an audio book on the train to Holyhead and during the ferry ride to Dublin. It turned out to be quite the blessing because he simply popped his headphones in whenever Harry became unbearable, and thought about what it would be like to hear Sherlock use those rolling consonants and extended vowels.

Eventually he recalled the demand that he learn to read it as well, and pulled the book out of his bag. He became completely engrossed in writing out the symbols of Sherlock’s second native language, to the point Harry became completely disgusted and demanded to know what he could possibly be going to school for at his age.

“Oh, this is more recreational schooling, I’m learning on my own. Would you like to try? It’s actually a bit fun.”

“What are you learning?”

“Greek, how to speak, read, and write it.”

“Why?” She asked, looking at him as if he’d gone mad.

“So I can talk to Sherlock and other Satyrs in a language they’re more comfortable with.”

“Why don’t you just fucking marry him already?” Harry asked, throwing her arms up in the air in disgust.

John winced and Harry stilled with a shocked look on her face that, to John’s surprise, slowly changed into a sad one.

“Geez, big brother, you’ve got it bad, huh?”

John fiddled with the pages of the book, not prepared to look her in the eye, and Harry sank down beside him with a sigh.

“Look, I’ve been there, alright? You can talk to me about it. Does he know?”

“I think he does, but we’ve never discussed it. We’re close, but not in the way you’d think. He… he thinks of me as another Satyr, and that’s apparently quite the big deal for him. He wants me to learn Greek so…”

“So you’re studying the way you did in Med School, like your life and reputation depended on it,” Harry said softly.

“In Afghanistan, it did. So did lots of other lives,” John pointed out.

“This isn’t Uni or war, Johnny, it’s real life,” She tapped the book in front of John, “Do you think this will win him over?”

“No. I don’t think that I can win him over. I think this is as close as I can get to him, and that’s all I need. It makes him happy.”

“That’s a very lonely life, Johnny. You’re just going to pine over him until you both grow old and die?” John didn’t reply; he’d resorted to picking at his nails and biting his lips, “Just… call me if you need to talk, okay?”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

XXXXXXXXXXX

“We’ve got a case, John,” Sherlock called, hurrying out of his room, buttoning his shirt as he went, “A couple in the midst of a domestic that’s gotten a bit on the violent side. Four Kidds and a Doe are inside. The neighbors called it in. Apparently her husband has been abusing her for quite some time but she’s been afraid to call the police. They want us there to help diffuse the situation.”

“Another Satyr advocacy case?” John asked, referring to the times Sherlock was called in simply because he was a Satyr known to work with the police, “You never take me along on those.”

“I do now, so get your coat doctor, we’re needed.”

“Is someone hurt?”

“Oh, probably, but the sooner we get there the sooner she and the Kidds can get to a hospital.”

“Then you don’t need me as a doctor?”

Sherlock gave John an annoyed look and rushed out the door, John hot on his trail.

The situation had devolved into a standoff with the police by the time they arrived. Most of the neighbors were Satyrs, living in horrid conditions in an apartment block with shoddy electric, poor plumbing, and close quarters. Eyes peered out as John and Sherlock headed up the (hideously carpeted) stairs to the third floor and down the hall to where the police were leaning against the wall on either side of the door. The neighbor who had apparently called the police babbled to Sherlock in Greek, thanking him profusely for coming and weeping on his arm. John was surprised to see him put a comforting arm around her and tell her to go back to her flat where she would be safe.

“What’re you doing here?” Lestrade asked, a bemused look on his face.

John shrugged and Sherlock slipped his arm through his and leaned in to whisper in his hear.

“I’m going to go talk to the Buck. Stay here and translate anything relevant for Lestrade. Most of it’s going to be irrelevant, but if things go downhill I don’t want them relying on tone of voice before they intervene.”

“You want me in there with you if you go in?”

“Not just yet, let me feel him out first. He might not understand your role.”

John nodded and Sherlock separated from him to step closer to the door, shooing PC’s out of his way.

**“This is** Sherlock Holmes **. Do you know who I am?”**

**“You’re that detective.”**

**“Correct. I’m here to find out what’s wrong and make sure you and your family are treated fairly.”**

**“You can start by getting these fucking** cops **away from my family!”**

**“I’ll do that at the earliest. Why don’t you tell me what’s going on? Perhaps I can step inside and we can discuss this like civilized Bucks?”**

**“This is my** flat _._ **This is my Doe. These are my Kidds. No one is taking them away from me. They’ll just take them to some Human hospital and rape them!”**

**“I can take them back to my flat and have my doctor friend treat them if they’re injured. There’s no need to involve Humans.”**

Silence for a moment, then: “ **I thought your doctor friend was a human.”**

**“He’s** @#$%^&* **to me**.” Sherlock replied, slipping in a word in Satyrese. John couldn’t have reproduced it if he’d tried for a hundred years.

**“He’ll report me! I didn’t mean to hurt** Lena **. I love her. She’s my Doe.”**

**“I understand. These things happen. John won’t report you. He understands we do things differently than Humans do.”**

Silence for a moment, John could hear soft crying from the other room, then the clomp of a Satyr moving away from the door and a loud scream as the Doe was apparently forcefully separated from her children. She was thrown bodily out of the flat and the door slammed behind her. John blinked in shock. She wasn’t a Doe. She was a Woman! She screamed horribly, pulling herself back and scrabbling at the door despite a broken leg dragging behind her. He had apparently blocked the door. From within John could hear the Kidds screaming in fear, one of them being old enough to yell for help in Greek.

**“The Kidds are mine! Keep the Human bitch!”**

“Break down the door!” John hissed to Lestrade, and bolted after Sherlock who had run down the hall the instant the door slammed shut.

Sherlock kicked out the nearest window and jumped onto the fire escape behind it. John followed; he knew Sherlock wanted him with him so he simply went. Sherlock was on the fire escape to the Bucks flat kicking in the window by the time John had bolted around the corner to get to him. Then Sherlock ducked inside with a shout over his shoulder to John.

“Get the Kidds!”

John followed Sherlock’s coat tails and when Sherlock darted right through the bedroom door, John darted left. The children were everywhere. The Buck must have been breeding the Human woman. Four of them total, Sherlock had said, and John only saw three. He scooped up the nearest, a baby squalling on the floor with it’s little legs kicking; though it was part Satyr and therefore able to walk at birth, it was clearly too terrified to do so. The police were still taking down the Satyr, who was fighting them for all he was worth, kicking and bucking his head violently.

“ **You are safe. You are safe** _.”_ John soothed.

John snatched up a five year old Kidd around the waist, holding him under his arm and barely ducked a flying kick from the Buck. He darted to the side and delivered a kick of his own to the Buck’s kidney before darting around him to look for more Kidds. Sherlock had them and they made brief eye contact before both bolting for the door. They were through and down the hall. Sherlock let out a bleat that opened doors along the entire row of flats and chose one at apparent random to duck into. John followed and found Sherlock on the owner’s couch, the door having slammed shut behind John, with the two Kidd’s he’d grabbed crawling all over him and bleating pitifully. They were speaking Satyrese, but their words didn’t need to be understood. They were frightened and most likely calling for their mother who John hadn’t seen in the hallway. John threw himself down on the couch beside Sherlock, righting the five year old and sitting her beside him.

“ **You are safe. I will help you** _._ ” John soothed and the little girl blinked up at him before pressing her face against his chest and bursting into tears.

The baby was slung over John’s shoulder, bleating loudly in his ear before switching to ordinary crying. He bounced the little thing, his hand under its bottom the way he’d seen the woman on the tube holding her Kidd. A glance to his side showed Sherlock gently rocking the two children, one sitting on each knee, who were as wrapped around each other as he was around them. The Doe who had let them in was hurrying forward with a tray full of plastic cups filled with water and a bowl of pretzels. John stared at the fare in confusion, but Sherlock shifted the Kidds and started offering things to them.

“John _,_ **take a look at them all. Make sure they’re unharmed** _.”_

_“_ **Yes** _,_ Sherlock.”

John eased the five year old against Sherlock’s side as he stood and placed the baby on the couch to examine. He seemed uninjured, though it would be best to get him x-rayed, so John passed him to the Doe who bounced him gently and headed to the kitchen with him to give him some space from his hysterical siblings. John moved on to the five year old, asking her gently if she were injured anywhere. She held out her hand and he winced sympathetically as he noted her broken finger.

“ **I will fix that soon** _._ ” John promised before turning to the two in Sherlock’s arms.

They were boys, one almost four and the other probably two. They had some bruises, and the two-year-olds bruise was in rather serious location.

“Sherlock, he might have internal bleeding.” John whispered into Sherlock’s ear. The ear twitched and Sherlock leaned forward and pressed his cheek against John’s for a moment. He’d been doing this on occasion, and as always John held perfectly still until Sherlock broke the contact.

“Call an ambulance. If there’s one already on the way here, make sure they’re up to speed.”

John did so and then got a popsicle stick and some medical tape to take care of the little girl’s finger. The Doe whose home they had invaded had returned with not just the baby, but also the Human mother being propelled forward between two Bucks.

“ **Her Buck has been taken to** gaol _._ **May he rot there**.” One of the Bucks stated coldly.

John turned his attention to the Woman, but when he started speaking in English to her Sherlock halted him.

**“Greek,** John, **she’s one of us.”**

John nodded in understanding and switched over, struggling with some of the more complicated questions as he both consoled and treated her. He got her leg stabilized around a bit of wooden trim the Doe had provided. The paramedics finally arrived and they were all bundled away, but Sherlock insisted they go along with them to hospital as an advocate since they weren’t being taken to St. Barts. John ended up riding with the mother and the youngest baby.

While at Cromwell Hospital, Sherlock referred to the mother as a Doe and made it clear she had all parental rights over the Kidds. The staff were surprised but complied in the face of the stubborn and intense Sherlock Holmes.

“Humanoid parents often end up loosing guardianship of their Kidds,” Sherlock explained, “For the simple fact the courts often think a Human can’t care for a Faun. They’re still her children, though, and I intend to speak on her behalf at the custody hearing once her Buck is out of gaol.”

“I’ll help, of course,” John replied, “Sometimes a doctor stating that injuries are serious remind people that they’re bloody _serious_.”

Sherlock gave him a half smile, slipped an arm in his, and guided him out of the hospital. John leaned into Sherlock’s warmth during the cab ride home, amazed at the world he’d entered into. The moment when all those doors flew open especially spoke to him. How often did Humans hear their neighbors beating their spouses and do nothing? That neighbor had called for help and the entire floor of the building had been ready to house them. No questions asked. Sherlock’s unknown words in Satyrese were echoing in his mind. What had he referred to John as? What had he yelled when running down the hall with the children? Did the people who threw open their doors know in advance he had Kidds in tow? The Kidds had been bleating; had they been speaking Satyrese as well? Had they called for help? Or just for their mother who couldn’t even understand the language they were born speaking?

“Sherlock?”

“Hmm?”

“Thank you for including me today.”

“Mmmm.”

Sherlock pressed his cheek to John’s forehead and he held his breath for the few heartbeats he remained there.

 

<http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OSwsJtSfyXU>

[CHAPTER SIX](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/47829.html)


	6. vincentmeoblinn | Seduced By A Satyr Ch 6

OK. We’ve been cute and fluffy for a while now and I can’t stand it anymore. BRING ON THE NON-CON AND PAIN!!  
Also, this is a complete re-write of Reichenbach falls, so please don’t mention it’s not canon. It’s not meant to be. This is how a twisted little Satyr Moriarty would do things.

 

Sherlock was anxious on the morning of the trial for Jim Moriarty, which John thought was odd since he’d testified in numerous court cases, though perhaps none so famous as this one. Still, Sherlock was hardly the sort to be thrown off by a bunch of flashing cameras. He also clung quite a bit to John as they sat in the panda wagon on their way to the courthouse.

“John, **if something goes wrong, I need you to promise me something.** ” Sherlock insisted as they neared the courthouse.

“ **Yes?”**

**“Promise me you’ll go to our own kind. Don’t trust the Humans. They won’t understand. Hide if you must. I’ll find you when I can.** ”

John leaned back to get a look at his face, but Sherlock tugged him close again, pulling on his arm painfully.

**“** Sherlock **what aren’t you telling me. What is going on?”**

**“I’m not sure yet, but** Moriarty **let himself be caught for a reason.”**

“ **What reason**?”

**“I’ve no idea.** ”

XXX

John sat in the courtroom and watched Sherlock take the stand, his coat perfectly pressed and tight to his well-sculpted body. His hair carefully groomed and parted at one side, a bit of gel to keep it in place and manage those normally unruly curls. He was being called as an expert in order to prove Moriarty was the consulting criminal he had originally claimed him to be. What he said next shocked the entire courtroom, John included.

“Mr. Holmes, how would you describe James Moriarty?” The lawyer asked.

“I’m afraid I can’t seeing as how I have yet to meet the gentleman- if he even is a gentleman. Perhaps he’s a gentle _lady_ , or Buck, or Doe,” Sherlock replied, to the shock of the courtroom.

“I… I beg your pardon?” The lawyer asked, clearly stunned.

“He’s a nobody,” Sherlock waved a hand at Moriarty, who raised his eyebrows but made no other move, “You’ve caught the wrong man.”

“Mr. Holmes,” The judged intervened, “Do you need to be reminded that you are _not_ here to speak for the defense?”

“No, I’m perfectly aware, but new information has been brought to my attention and I feel the need to right a grievous error on my part. You’ve caught the wrong man. This is Richard Brook: actor, fool, and disingenuous twit. Arrest him for vandalism if you must, but you won’t find any other charges will stick.”

Moriarty’s lawyer stood up, “Defense moves that this information be provided for review.”

A halt was called as Sherlock pulled a file out from under his arm and handed it to the judge, who reviewed it with a sigh and passed it on.

“It seems this case can not be tried further. Mr. Brook is released on his own recognizance, as the charges brought against him are actually filed against someone else entirely. Case dismissed.”

John met Sherlock outside the courtroom, his eyes wide and angry.

“Why did you do that? _How_ could you do that? He strapped a _bomb_ to me! He had snipers point _guns_ at me!”

“He’s a figurehead. Cut him off and another two will grow like a damned hydra. Our efforts are better suited elsewhere, in searching for the _real_ Moriarty,” Sherlock replied with absolutely no sign of regret.

“His face is still the one I see in my nightmares at night!” John shouted.

“And for that I am truly sorry, John,” Sherlock replied, and he looked it, which calmed John considerably, “Come home. We’ll discuss this there.”

That alerted John to the fact journalists were eagerly listening in, their crewmen snapping pictures or recording. John gave a curt nod and he and Sherlock headed out the door.

“Richard Brook, originally thought to be James Moriarty,” A reporter announced in the cabs telly, “is being taken back to prison where he will be either released or charged with new crimes; if New Scotland Yard can find something to charge him with in a timely fashion. Perhaps this time they’ll try a charge that will actually stick.”

Sherlock frowned angrily at the television in the cab, and tugged John close to himself, squeezing his shoulders painfully.

“You remember your promise to me?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

They reached the flat and Sherlock immediately turned the television on, his eyes glued to the screen and his leg jogging nervously as he sat on the edge of the couch with his elbows on his knees.

“That really was James Moriarty, wasn’t it?” John asked.

“Yes.” Sherlock pressed his hands together, resting his lips on them and studying the screen with narrowed eyes. He was waiting for the next press announcement.

“You lied under oath, Sherlock. Why?”

“Because he told me to, of course.”

“What? Why would you do what he says?” John sat down in his chair and stared at Sherlock in confusion.

“Because he threatened me. You remember his promise, John, to burn the heart out of me? Well, he’s won. He’s got something that will destroy me if he exposes it. My hands are tied.”

“What do you need me to do?” John asked immediately.

Sherlock met his eyes then, and the pain and fear in them stopped John’s throat up.

“Survive, doctor. I need you to survive this, because we are both about to fall and I don’t know how we can manage to catch each other.”

John’s mouth had gone dry. He swallowed a few times, but to no avail, and rose to go make tea instead. The familiar process calmed his nerves. When he returned Sherlock was still in the same spot, glaring accusingly at the television, and waiting for something to happen. John sat beside him this time, sitting a cup and saucer in front of Sherlock even though he knew the man wouldn’t touch it. He sipped his own while leaning against Sherlock’s side and breathing in the Satyrs reassuring scent; something both woodsy and masculine at the same time. John’s traitorous cock gave an interested twitch despite the tension.

A text came through before the television gave them what they wanted. Sherlock showed it to John.

“Has Donovan ever called you for a case before?” John asked in surprise.

“No, but I imagine Lestrade is plenty pissed off at me, and it sounded like her. Come on. I could use the distraction.”

The car park they entered was right outside of Little Satyr where their last advocacy case was, so it was no shock that Satyr were involved. What was shocking was that they found not a single person, Human or Satyr, in the car park. It barely even had any cars in it. Sherlock texted Donovan again, and she quickly replied that they had the correct address, and to go to the third level.

Once they climbed the stone steps Sherlock sniffed the air, his eyebrows wrinkled in confusion.

“Something wrong?”

“Something very wrong. John, I can’t go any further. I need you to go ahead and tell me if there’s a Doe anywhere in there.”

John nodded in confusion and hurried around the bend after glancing left and right for enemies, his hand on the Sig tucked into his trousers. The car park was completely empty. Not even a single vehicle to mar his view. No Doe in sight, but there was something written across three stone pillars and a strange smell in the air.

“I O U?” John read in confusion, “Sherlock does that mean anything to…”

John stopped speaking; first because he had gotten suddenly and impossibly hard; second, because Sherlock had groaned behind him in apparent agony.

_That smell! A Doe in heat!_

John turned to hurry back to Sherlock, but he had apparently fled from him, hurrying down the stone steps. He hadn’t made it far and was leaned against a wall, trousers around his thighs as he tossed himself off fast and hard. His head was thrown back, his face more in pain than aroused, and he was groaning miserably. He came just as John approached him, with absolutely no idea what he was planning on doing when he reached him.

Sherlock’s eyes flew open and he snatched John around the waist, pulling him close. John didn’t remember tugging his own trousers open, but then perhaps Sherlock did it for him, but he would never forget the feel of those long, thin digits wrapped around his cock as Sherlock brought him over the edge.

“Oh, god, Sherlock!”

“I’ll call a cab. Get yourself sorted. I’m not in Rut yet, just reacting to that smell, but I will be. Once we get home you _will_ lock yourself in your room. Do you understand?”

“Y… yes.” John replied starting to right his clothes as Sherlock had already done.

It hurt. The rejection, knowing Sherlock had only touched him to hurry things along, knowing Sherlock would rather spend Rut alone than with him, and most of all knowing that he would have done something if Sherlock hadn’t stopped him.

_Lock yourself up, too, Sherlock. I wasn’t myself just then_.

Baker Street and home, with Sherlock practically fleeing up the stairs and slamming the door behind himself. He drew the bolt and John bolted to the right and up to his own room to do the same. There he tugged open his bedside drawer to find no lube, no sex toys, not even Sherlock’s fucking _hairbrush_. He’d been looted of everything he needed to keep himself sane for the next 6-8 hours!

John limped downstairs, his cock jutting out of his trouser’s fly and leaking onto his clothes as John held them partway up his body. Sherlock had been cognizant enough to lock the side door into the kitchen but John kicked it down. The smell was intense and John glanced aside to see Sherlock’s bedroom door standing open. He groaned and staggered in, but the Faun was nowhere to be seen.

_He left me! He left me for that Doe we smelled! Sherlock, how could you?!_

He went to the bathroom instead, searching frantically for anything to relieve the ache inside of his body _demanding_ he be filled. He located some lotion and dropped to his knees with his forehead resting on the sink as he fingered himself frantically, groaning in frustration when it simply wasn’t enough. Outside the door John heard an agonized cry, almost a sob, and realized that Sherlock was still there. He had enough presence of mind to grab the bottle of lotion, but not enough to stop himself.

_Sherlock’s in pain. I can take it away. He’ll thank me later. He’ll be so relieved. Then he’ll realize that I can make him feel good_ every _day and not just during Rut._

Sherlock was on one hand and his knees just inside the sitting room door to their flat, his trousers and pants abandoned and his hand flying across his cock. He was doubled over, his tail tenting his shirttails behind him, but John wasn’t interested in that half; he needed something inside of him and needed it badly. John dropped down beside Sherlock, pushing his hands away and smearing lotion across the Satyrs leaking prick. He had evidently climaxed once already and John used some of the leavings to help as well. Then he simply ducked under Sherlock’s body and pressed himself back.

Sherlock cried out and snatched at John’s body, pressing himself inside far too quickly for John’s poorly stretched body. John cried out in pain and attempted to get away, but Sherlock held him fast and began pumping his hips fast and hard. It was awful at first, and he cried out and begged Sherlock to stop or slow down as he attempted to escape from his bruising grasp, but after Sherlock’s next orgasm the way became smoother and he began to thrust back as his prostate was stimulated by the largest phallus he’d ever had pressed inside of his body. None of his dildos had come close to this, because Sherlock was both long and thick, filling him completely, the texture of real skin gliding inside of him quickly becoming a thing of beauty.

John came with a cry but Sherlock was far from done and he soon found himself struggling to get away again as his over stimulated body demanded they stop for at least a moment.

“Please, Sher, it hurts, oh god, please it’s too much!”

“You wanted this, didn’t you? Kicked down the door,” Sherlock grunted, stilling as he filled him again before continuing to thrust despite John’s sobbing pleas, “I heard you. Did you plan this, John? Is this what you wanted from me all this time?”

“No! No! Ahhhh, please stop, I think I’m torn!”

Sherlock pressed John’s face into the floor, and sparks of plain flared up from there as well, as his cheek was scraped. The change in angle relieved some of the pressure from his prostate and John was momentarily relieved, but he was certain he was damaged because he continued to feel sharp spears through his body with every thrust.

“Oh, Zues, John it’s so good!” Sherlock moaned, and despite himself John felt a flare of pride that he was giving Sherlock relief.

He blacked out eventually, but came to once more to find himself on his back in Sherlock’s bed with the Buck pressing into him once more. The head was agonizing and he screamed and fought for everything he was worth.

“Shhhh, almost done, John. Almost there, love. Oh, Dionysus! Oh!”

Sherlock was thrusting again and John gripped both of his forearms to comfort himself and sobbed until the darkness swallowed him up once more.

When John awoke it was to a finger pressed to his pulse point. He cried out and thrashed away, screaming as pain shot up his back from his arse. He stilled, in too much pain to fight anymore, and simply sobbed with his eyes squeezed tightly shut.

“Sshhh, it’s okay. He’s gone. He’s never going to hurt you again,” A soothing voice spoke up, and John’s eyes flew open to seek out the speaker.

A paramedic was kneeling over him, another standing off to the side with a stretcher waiting for him.

_Oh, god, Sherlock!_

“Where’s Sherlock?”

“A police officer came to get him,” The one by the door answered.

“Lestrade?”

“I think so. You’re going to be fine. No Billies where you’re going. Cromwell doesn’t treat them.”

“No… no I have to go to Bart’s.” _I have to be with my own kind... Sherlock said so…_

They didn’t listen to his protests, only shushing him and gently lifting him onto the stretcher. A glance back revealed a stain across Sherlock’s bed sheets: red, pink, and white in places.

“Is that my blood?” He asked in a daze, shocked by the magnitude of it.

“Don’t look, honey,” One of the medics advised and they rolled him out.

XXX

“I don’t understand,” John asked a doctor a few hours later when they had him laid out on his side on a bed, “Humans go through Rut with Satyr all the time. They have for nearly a century. What went wrong?”

“Your body wasn’t prepared properly,” The doctor replied gently, “Without copious amounts of lubricant, refreshed regularly, and stretching before hand to at _least_ the Billies…”

“ _Bucks,_ ” John corrected angrily.

“Very well, at least the _Bucks_ size, then your body will eventually be torn a bit. It was made all the worse because he wasn’t very gentle with you. It’s true that Satyr can’t consent, but they can hold themselves back in order to not do harm, there’s been plenty of evidence to support that. Billies don’t seek out a Human partner; instinctively they only go after Nannies or other Billies. They also don’t become more violent unless they _want_ to. Do you understand now why we want you to press charges?”

“No. The law is very clear on all this. Satyr can’t consent. I’m not going to accuse my best friend of rape.”

The woman smiled sympathetically and gave his arm a squeeze.

“At least talk to one of our advocates? They can…”

“I’m not talking to some prejudiced arsehole who wants me to set Satyr rights back a half century by accusing Sherlock Holmes of rape. It’s never going to happen.”

“I just meant for yourself; strictly confidential,” She raised her hands in a gesture of peace, “You’re going to need help to recover from this emotionally as well as physically, John. You’re blaming yourself, as most victims do, and it’s only going to lead you to a very bleak place. I realize he’s put lots of thoughts in your head, has you thinking that you’re at fault, but that’s what abusive partners do. You don’t have to stay with him, either; we can arrange a bedsit for you for free until you get yourself together financially. The best thing you can do for yourself is _leave_.”

“No. No, I’m not talking to your Racial Slur Department and I’m not pressing charges. In fact I’d like _you_ to leave. Now.”

XXX

John was released a few days later, after they made sure no infection had set in. He counted himself lucky that he’d only needed a few stitches and the damage hadn’t been severe enough that he’d be using a colon bag like a man who had been sexually assaulted with a pipe while he’d been on tour in Afghanistan. That had been truly brutal.

Sherlock hadn’t visited him the entire time and John’s phone hadn’t been with him, so John was more than a bit nervous as he slipped his key in the lock of 221B, but before he could turn it he heard a call from the street behind him.

“John Watson, please come with us,” John turned in surprise to see Lestrade standing there, his face a mask of rage; beside him even Donovan looked angry.

John’s stomach dropped out. Sherlock must have pressed charges. It honestly hadn’t occurred to him that the Faun would, but it was his right, and apparently Lestrade had offered to bring John in despite the fact it wasn’t his division. John stepped forward and held out his wrists for cuffs, but Lestrade just nodded towards the police car that had pulled up behind him while he’d been steeling his nerves to enter their flat- their _former_ flat. Sherlock wouldn’t want him there now.

XXX

John wasn’t used to being on this side of the one-way mirror at the station, but he wasn’t fool enough to know something was off. The recorder on the table wasn’t blinking and John had a feeling there was no one on the other side of the glass that stretched out before him.

“Confess,” Lestrade stated, “On tape, and accept a sentence without legal representation. You do that and I’ll know you’re actually sorry for what you did to him.”

John could have wept then and there, but something held him in check.

“How… how is he?” John asked, swallowing around the lump in his throat.

“A fucking wreck. He’s been sleeping on my couch. Refuses to go back to Baker Street. Fucking _cries_ when he thinks I’m not around. Won’t talk to me, Mycroft, or anyone else. You tell me whenever you’re ready for me to hit record.”

Lestrade leaned back, eyes cold and hateful, and folded his arms as though he were ready to wait until the apocalypse for John’s confession. It was a tactic and John knew it was, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t working on him.

“Can I see him? Speak to him? On the phone, maybe?” John pleaded, sure if he could just explain himself Sherlock would perhaps be comforted a bit, would perhaps even forgive him in time, though he doubted the Buck would ever be his friend again.

“You’re never going near him again, Watson. Not a chance in fucking hell. Restraint papers are already drawn up, just waiting for a signature from Sherlock if you don’t spill the beans.”

John swallowed the tears down, and opened his mouth to do exactly that when something stopped him. Sherlock had a right to press charges that would eliminate any of the need for a confession. All it required was a blood sample showing his hormone levels in flux to prove he had been in Rut within the last week. A good lawyer might even make sure he never had to appear in court, despite racial prejudice, and Mycroft could provide one easily. Top all of that off with the fact Lestrade hadn’t asked him _not to fight the charges_ , he had asked him to give himself up, and something stunk to high heaven.

_Promise me you’ll go to our own kind. Don’t trust the Humans. They won’t understand. Hide if you must. I’ll find you when I can._

“ _Has_ Sherlock pressed charges?” John asked, and Lestrade narrowed his eyes, seemed to make a decision, and replied with a negative, “Then I’m not confessing to a thing.”

“You’re really going to put him through this? I thought better of you than that once.”

“I’ll move out if he wants me to, but I want to hear it from him.” John pressed, certain he was right this time.

Lestrade stood and left the room and John’s stomach went into twists. He waited for what seemed like ages, but was probably closer to half an hour, and then Lestrade re-entered with a folder, which he tossed down onto the table.

“We found this in his flat, right on Sherlock’s nightstand. Go ahead, take a look.”

John’s stomach dropped out. The first page was a picture of the cabbie John had shot for Sherlock not long after he’d met him. The picture after that was someone who had jumped Sherlock in an alley. John had beaten him until he’d gotten a chance at a shot and then taken him out. He’d been amped up on drugs and John’s fists hadn’t been deterrent enough. The file continued, over and again, John recognized most of the faces, but had no doubt he’d dispatched the ones he didn’t remember, too.

_I look like a serial killer. My god, am I?_

“You confess or I start looking for evidence to back this up,” Lestrade stated calmly.

“Why?” John asked, “Sherlock will get dragged in, too. He was there for all of this; you know he was. You know about my unregistered gun and haven’t said a word this whole time, even you might be implicated!”

“They’re going after him already, John. By not pressing charges on you the world has decided he’s the guilty party. The fucking Anti-Satyrism groups are going after him and we’re not going to be able to keep from pressing charges on _your_ behalf. They’re claiming you’re traumatized and unable to make that call yourself, that he’s been abusing you for years. The press has turned on him and with it public opinion. Some fucking journalist dug up a psych report proving he was diagnosed as a sociopath at 19. He’s going to go down if you don’t confess. For this,” Lestrade tapped the pages in front of him, “I can find ways to get him off. I can say _you’re_ the nutter and he wasn’t psychologically able to determine it. I can use his diagnosis to aid him instead of hurt him. I can get him thrown in a loony bin instead of gaol, but you… you’re going down for something, John Watson, and I don’t much care which as long as your entire fucking life as you know it ends today.”

John reached across and hit the record button for the device on the table.

“I, John Hamish Watson, raped Sherlock Holmes during his Rut on…”

Lestrade leaned back, his jaw locked and his eyes unforgiving. John kept his voice even and calm, determined to come across as unrepentant and evil enough to spare Sherlock a trial; but once Lestrade hit the end button he fell apart, rocking and hugging himself tightly.

He had failed to protect Sherlock when it mattered most; he had failed to protect him from himself.

Vinny: On Zues, the _pain!_

Muse: You did ask for it…

Vinny: I’m a masochist! I always ask for it! Red! RED!

Muse: Too late…

   


[CHAPTER SEVEN](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/48018.html)

 


	7. vincentmeoblinn | Seduced By A Satyr Ch 7

I just want to say that I hate using gaol in place of jail, but I feel I should as a nod to the books. So if I goof and use jail, I apologize for the confusion.

 

John knew the second he set foot in prison that his days were numbered. Not only was he going to gaol for a sex crime, which made him the prison Glory Hole, but he also had helped Sherlock put dozens of people _in_ gaol in the 18 months they’d worked together. He’d even shot and killed several of these prisoner’s accomplices, friends, and perhaps even family members. Add to that his limp and trembling hand were back with a vengeance, and the prison would not provide him with a cane since it could be used as a weapon, and he would be dead within a week.

John’s first day was mostly quiet as he had arrived in the afternoon and was confined to his cell alone instead of joining the rest of the prisoners outside. Towards the night a Satyr was added into his cell, which surprised John since he had thought that they kept the Satyrs and Humans in separate cells at night. John had frozen in fear but the Satyr hadn’t even glanced at him before climbing into the bottom bunk, John having claimed the top with the thought it would be safer once his cellmate arrived.

He slept fitfully, his mind filled with guilty visions of Sherlock crying and lustful ones of him gasping in pleasure mid-orgasm. He woke shouting Sherlock’s name and buried his head under his blanket in horror. He couldn’t even recall what the dream had been so he had no idea if he had sounded aroused or frightened.

On their way to the breakfast hall the Satyr stuck close to him, grabbing his arm and jerking him to his side when John started to stray away, and John decided if he was going to end up someone’s bitch, best a Satyr’s and atone for his sins. He pressed close, initiating the kind of contact Sherlock had preferred by looping his arms around the Satyr’s. It also gave him something to lean on to help with his lagging gait. The Buck gave an approving grunt and John was guided to a table full of other Bucks; the Does were kept in another wing, along with the Human females.

The conversation around him switched from softly spoken Satyrese to Greek the moment John’s rump hit the bench. John spied the Buck with the four Kidds and the Human/Doe sitting across and a few Fauns down, but the creature avoided his questioning eyes.

**“This slop is going to put me off food for the rest of my life,”** One Buck complained loudly, and the rest of them agreed wholeheartedly.

John glanced down and saw why: porridge instead of oatmeal. Sherlock had always found the stuff repulsive, but John was hungry and apparently everyone else was too, so they dug in. At least sugar had been provided, though John would have loved some milk or cream.

Later in the showers John was separated from his Satyr guardian and watched in horror as the guards smirked in his direction before vanishing around a corner. John wasn’t stupid, he bolted before anyone could get near him and got to the Satyr side of the shower where he slipped, fell, and huddled amongst ‘his own kind’ on the floor at their hooves. One of them finished their shower and nodded to John to take his spot. John gratefully washed up and they all filed out together.

It all became routine, and John barely thought anymore. He recognized the signs of depression, but it wasn’t as though he could ask for a therapist or medicine. He rarely spoke accept to shout for help in Greek when someone managed to corner him alone. Twice he wasn’t saved from a beating and once he ended up orally raped, but life went on after without him doing much besides puking in the nearest commode. His cellmate asked him for a handjob every now and again, which John was happy to provide and even received one in return if he were able to become aroused; as his depression got worse that ability halted and the Buck didn’t question it.

His sentence was five years long, but he had the option to get released on parole for good behavior after three. The time loomed ahead of him like a stretched hall from a horror movie, his potential release date moving further away the more he looked forward to it. The days blurred into weeks, the weeks into months, and then the janitor appeared.

He was a wizened old Buck, with a white beard and one broken horn. One look at him and John knew he was fresh from the streets. Someone had helped him get this job and he doubted it was a coincidence that the gaol had just hired their first Satyr employee while he was staying there, or that the man was the cleaner for his block. John leaned against the bars and watched the Buck scrub the floors, slowly moving from one end of the block to the other and then finally reaching John’s cell with Fritz, his cellmate.

The Faun never looked up, never made any kind of acknowledgment that John was present, but he reached into his pocket as he stood close to the bars, and as he pulled out a handkerchief to dab at his brow a folded piece of paper slipped out and John snatched it up while the Satyr’s body still provided cover. He cupped it in his hands and maintained his position of watching the Faun as though he were simply bored and the movement was enough to distract him. Once the Buck left John climbed up to his bunk and opened the paper, hoping he hadn’t just ended up with the Faun’s accidentally dropped grocery list.

**_Trust A.F. She is with us. Follow her directions to the letter._ **

The writing was Sherlock’s and John pressed it to his nose hoping for his scent, but only smelled the old Faun who had delivered it. John wondered if he could get word out, but decided by Sherlock’s careful wording that it wasn’t safe. Moriarty was watching in some way and Sherlock might still be in danger.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

It was another two months before he found out who A.F. was, and he would have rejected her assistance immediately had it not been for Sherlock’s note.

“I’m from Satyr Abuse Victims Anonymous, Mr. Watson. Your case was referred to me. S.A.V.A exists to make sure that people in your unique position aren’t punished for more than is due. Are you aware that the sentence for sex with an animal is much shorter than the one you received?”

John’s stomach rolled and he wanted to be sick at the thought- Satyrs were _people_ not animals, and he’d never considered bestiality attractive- but he swallowed it down and smiled at Mrs. Anastasia Franklin.

“Is that so?”

She had him freed in under two weeks and directed him to a bedsit not far from Little Satyr. John’s first contact with another free individual besides a store clerk was with that same Faun from the prison; but he wasn’t mopping floors this time, he was sitting on the sidewalk outside of John’s block waving his hat for spare change. John took a moment to scrawl a note on the receipt from the mart he’d just visited, wrapped it in his last bit of paper money, and dropped it into the hat. It was his disposable mobile number, flat number, and Sherlock’s name; he worried on his way back upstairs if even that had been too much to put on paper.

The bedsit was a thing from his nightmares. It looked exactly like the one he’d been in when he’d met Sherlock over two years ago now, and it only reminded him that he was once more entirely alone. Sherlock may have seen fit to get him out of gaol early, but that didn’t mean he had forgive his indiscretion. He still recalled Lestrade’s words; that Sherlock had been afraid to return to Baker Street and had wept in private.

The Satyr beggar was in his room as John turned around after dropping his non-perishable groceries on the desk in the room, and he let out a startled gasp at his silent entrance through John’s decidedly locked door.

“I… Can I help you?” John stammered.

“I hope so, are you the man who knew Sherlock Holmes?” The creature asked in a voice thick with some form of throat cancer.

“Yes, I was his flatmate for a time. Why?”

“Can you hand me your cane, there?”

John turned to fetch it, wondering if he was going to take it from him proclaiming he didn’t need it or if he was going to beat him with it; he still had nightmares about Sherlock screaming abuse at him and demanding to know how he could have betrayed him so horribly. When he turned again, there stood a naked Sherlock Holmes, with a pile of clothes, a wig, and other oddities from his disguise piled at his feet.

John let out a pained cry and threw himself at the Buck; quickly finding himself wrapped tight in his arms, his familiar scent filling his nose while Sherlock’s deep voice gently comforted him.

After thirteen months in hell he was finally back home.

[CHAPTER EIGHT](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/48210.html)


	8. vincentmeoblinn | Seduced By A Satyr Ch 8

They clung to each other for a few minutes, just savoring each other’s presence, and then John leaned back to beg for forgiveness only to find his lips crushed by Sherlock’s. The kiss was frantic and inexperienced, but John loved it the more for that and groaned hungrily as Sherlock’s tentatively nudged his lips with his tongue. He opened his mouth eagerly and they dueled a moment, before Sherlock pulled back, eyes slightly glazed, cheeks flushed, and lips swollen.

“I was never sure…” He panted, and then dove back for more, his hands everywhere on John’s needy body.

Sherlock pressed John back and he moved quite willingly towards the bed, his hands on Sherlock’s hips reuniting him with the Satyr’s alluring, swaying step. John eagerly sank down onto the bed when he bumped his knees against them and dropped his head to press a kiss to the pink head of Sherlock’s cock, which was just peaking out from the foreskin. Sherlock gasped and bucked his hips and John ended up with his mouth full but quickly tucked his teeth and suckled eagerly.

“Oh, Zeus, John, I won’t last!” Sherlock’s cry was ragged with lust.

John hummed appreciatively and fondled Sherlock’s heavy bollocks, running his hands through the surprisingly soft fur surrounding them. His other hand came into play to stop Sherlock choking him as the eager Buck lost all control of his hips and gripped his fists tightly in John’s hair. His thrusts were already erratic so John hollowed his cheeks to suck him firmly, pressing his tongue to his frenulum, and Sherlock was coming down his throat with a deep cry.

Sherlock staggered when John released him with an audible pop, but he caught the Satyr’s hips and tugged him onto the bed with him, they collapsed together, Sherlock dazed and panting with a goofy grin on his face. John nuzzled the Satyr’s neck, breathing in his scent again, and began thrusting against the silken fur on his hip, intending on bringing himself off that way. Sherlock stopped him instantly rolling over and pulling John against himself by slinging a careful leg over his hip. Their lips locked again, hungry and demanding on John’s part as Sherlock prevented him from making more than the most minute of motions with his hips. John growled out his frustration and Sherlock broke the kiss, leaning forward.

“Lube? I want you inside me, John, and my body makes woefully little lubrication outside of Rut.”

“Oh, god, Sherlock!” John gasped, bucking and just barely holding his climax at bay, “G…grocery bag!”

Sherlock vanished from his side and John gripped his cock around the base to calm himself, tugging his bollocks down until his body relaxed from stiff as a board to taut as a bow. Sherlock settled beside John and waved the tube above his face.

“Would you like to prepare me, or shall I do the honors?”

John’s eyes must have bugged out of his head because Sherlock chuckled a bit, then he was weighing his options. Finger fucking his friend-turned-lover sounded perfect, and he did have the medical training to make sure Sherlock was perfectly stretched before penetration, but so did seeing those long digits disappear inside of him. He must have taken too long, or looked too indecisive, because Sherlock leaned back on the bed tossed one leg over John’s body and slipped a lubed finger inside of himself. John sat up, stroking the leg sprawled across himself, and watched in wonder as those long, slim alabaster fingers disappeared inside the equally pale rosebud winking above Sherlock’s tail. He grabbed Sherlock’s other leg and raised it so Sherlock’s angle was better. Sherlock moaned appreciatively.

“I’ve been fantasizing about this since… I don’t remember how long.” John breathed, running his hand up Sherlock’s thigh and watching him shiver.

“Why didn’t you ever act on it?” Sherlock panted.

“You didn’t seem to want me to.”

“Maybe I didn’t know what I wanted.”

“Do you now?”

“Yes, but having it may be difficult.”

“I’ll be gentle.”

“My good doctor,” Sherlock breathed, slipping his fingers out and sitting up. He suddenly seemed shy without the ardor of Rut, and John took control without hesitation.

“Lay back, love,” John instructed, guiding Sherlock to put his head on John’s pillow.

John divested himself of his clothes and knelt between Sherlock’s knees, stroking his thighs and watching his beautiful pale eyes dilate. He pressed a finger inside, not just to make sure Sherlock was stretched enough, but also to prepare him for another person’s touch inside his body. He pumped it a few times while Sherlock visibly relaxed, then crooked it and watched his hips jerk off of the bedspread.

“Oh! P…Prostate?” Sherlock gasped.

“Too sensitive?”

“No! Yes! Fuck!” Sherlock’s cock had taken a renewed interest in the proceedings and John stroked it to full hardness before lubing up his own aching prick.

John didn’t bother with warnings or reminders that they could stop at any time; this was Sherlock Holmes, if he wanted to stop he’d just dump John on the ground and walk away. Instead he leaned forward, leaving his weight on one arm so as not to overwhelm the nervous creature, and slowly pressed the head of his cock passed the first ring of muscle. Sherlock’s erection had wilted, but now that he was steady John pumped it back to life again, easily distracting the Faun. He added a few swipes of his tongue across Sherlocks nipples, delighting when they budded up immediately and drew whimpers from the Buck. He suckled them as he lowered himself fully inside that quivering channel.

“John,” Sherlock breathed, apparently just to say his name.

“Sher,” John replied back, equally amazed.

Sherlock held him tight as a glove, his body twitching a bit as John stroked his shaft and toyed with his nipples.

“John if you don’t move I’m going to _really_ rape you,” Sherlock gasped.

John hardly needed the motivation and started a slow glide out, drawing a moan from Sherlock that lasted the length of it. John plunged back in before Sherlock could catch his breath and the man gasped and panted as John began to pump at a steadily increasing pace.

“Oh, fuck, oh Zeus, oh bloody hell, JOHN!” Sherlock was grasping at John’s buttocks with his hands, his fingernails digging in, and bucking his hips up to meet John’s thrusts.

_Made for sex_. John reminded himself, and took it to a new level as he fucked Sherlock fast and hard.

John was close but he reached between them and gripped his cock again, managing with shallow thrusts as he held himself back again. Only during Sherlock’s Rut, with the powerful pheromones surging through the air, would he be capable of multiple orgasms, but Sherlock could easily have another if he just held off a bit longer… just a little bit… almost…

Sherlock arched his back, his legs flying around John’s waist as his hands scrabbled in the bed for purchase; one hoof hit John sharply in the back of the calf, but John was too busy screaming out his orgasm to care as Sherlock spilled his own release between their bodies. They went limp together, panting and clinging to each other tightly as they came down from their mutually satisfying precipices.

“Well, that was…” Sherlock panted, and John chuckled against his neck in amusement.

They separated, but only to clean themselves up before pressing tightly together again. John was just starting to drift off when Sherlock sighed and sat up.

“We need to discuss the future, John,” Sherlock informed, nudging his shoulder to wake him.

John smiled blearily up at Sherlock, picturing Kidds with Sherlock’s features and his blonde coloring. Then he remembered he was fresh out of jail and hadn’t gotten tested yet.

“I should have worn a condom,” John winced.

“That’s not what I meant. I’m on birth control at the moment anyway.”

John didn’t bring up the testing. He’d get it done and tell Sherlock if there was a problem.

“What did you want to discuss, then?”

“You. You’re about to have a rather difficult time of things.”

John laughed mirthlessly, “I’ve already had a difficult time of things, Sherlock, not that I don’t appreciate your protection in gaol, but it was seriously horrible.”

“I’m afraid your trials have only just begun, John. Regretfully, Moriarty’s network is still in existence, and I have yet to get to the Buck himself.”

John felt himself go cold. Of course he had realized their setup and downfall had been Moriarty, but he had honestly thought that with vengeance met they could just go on with their lives. It had been a stupid idea, likely brought on by his last trailing hope as depression smothered him in prison.

“What now?”

“Now I have to leave you, probably for a very long while,” Sherlock replied softy, his eyes sad, “It won’t be safe for me to visit again, no matter how disguised. You’re going to face a great deal of prejudice, John. I haven’t worked a case since the last one we worked together. I’ve been pretending to be severely psychologically damaged. In fact, I’ll be going back into an institute again, soon.”

“That’s why Lestrade was so furious! I thought he was playing along or part of Moriarty’s network, but he honestly thought I’d raped you!”

“I’m not convinced he _isn’t_ a part of Moriarty’s network yet. Moriarty is a spider in the midst of a giant web, John, and he’s the only one who knows where each thread disappears off to. At the very least Donovan and Anderson are in his pocket, and they’re holding information over my head that prevents me from dropping my act just yet.”

“You think Moriarty is satisfied with you being ‘broken’?”

“Yes, for now he’s enjoying the occasional public scene I make, but there’s more to it than that. After convincing a therapist that I’m clinically depressed and traumatized, I informed her of my longing to travel the world, which she insisted I do using all the money we saved up over the 18 months we worked together. I’ve been using Mycroft to hide my movements; while Moriarty thinks I’m in Hawaii moping on a beach, I’m actually in Istanbul, or Brazil, or Madrid, etc and so forth. By doing this I’ve been seeking out and eliminating his bosses and other higher ups. He has no idea how it’s being done, though I suspect he blames Mycroft.”

“He owes you anyway,” John snarled angrily, which earned him a half smile and a peck on the cheek.

“Either way, Mycroft is more equipped to fend of personal and private attacks than we were. Which brings me to another point: Why didn’t you do as I asked?”

“To run and hide?”

“Yes, that.”

“Because I couldn’t let them go after you, Sherlock. They had a file making it look like we were a pair of serial killers, I’m guessing that was the leverage Moriarty sent you to get you to lie on the stand, and that Donovan and Anderson are holding over you?”

“Hmm, yes. Lestrade found my copy, but they already had one in their possession, which I was aware of, and were trying to convince Lestrade that I was a murderer.”

“He said either I turned myself in as a rapist or he’d use that file to see me locked up. I couldn’t just walk away Scott free and let them go after you for rape, it wasn’t even in the cards, and I certainly wasn’t going to let them pin murders _I_ committed on you.”

“I didn’t bet on him forcing you to confess, damn. John, those weren’t murders. You killed to defend me, that’s different.”

“Is it, Sherlock? When we could have called for backup? When I keep my gun unregistered so it doesn’t get traced back to us? When I never once considered turning myself in or even reporting where a body was?”

“John,” Sherlock grasped John’s face and held it so he had to look him in the eye, “Listen to me well. You are not a serial killer. You don’t have that kind of mental deficiency in you. Yes, you’ve killed, but only to protect me and never unless it was necessary. We avoided paperwork and meaningless trials that would have wasted everyone’s time and money. Is that a crime? Yes, probably, but they were _not murders._ ”

John nodded and Sherlock pressed a kiss to his lips before releasing him again.

“Your neighbors may or may not be understanding. I spread the word amongst the Satyr that I was to blame, that I’d harbored feelings for you that caused me to lose control during Rut. They’ve seen your medical files and most believe me, which is why you had support in gaol; don’t expect as much outside those walls. In prison the Bucks understood that circumstances could be damaging and respected you for taking the fall, especially knowing you were one of ours at the time. Not so here. Here you will be judged and found wanting by many. Lestrade is still angry with you, I imagine he’ll cause you trouble. I may try to use it to our advantage to try to ascertain his allegiance.”

“Sherlock… about what happened… I…”

“John, don’t,” Sherlock cut him off. “I could have refused you- at least I could have stopped after the first time- and I know you feel you might have held yourself back, but I think we both know neither of us wanted to stop. Zeus, the way you…!”

Sherlock seemed momentarily overcome and grasped John against himself, kissing him hungrily. John could feel him hardening against his stomach again, but he pulled away and studied John’s eyes with a worried look in them.

“I hurt you terribly. I was too inexperienced to know not to thrust inside you so hard. Humans are much more fragile than my kind. I want to take you again, but I don’t want to injure you again.”

“You can. I won’t stop you. I could never refuse you.”

“That’s what worries me, John. You were in so much pain, but even as you tried to squirm away from the pain, you still pressed against me. It was beautiful and terrible, and I don’t ever want to do that to you again.”

“Well, maybe outside of Rut, eh?” John teased a bit, and Sherlock smiled sadly.

Sherlock stood and started donning his costume again, pausing for one last passionate kiss from John before the doctor relented and stepped back. Sherlock Holmes vanished and a trembling old Faun with rheumy eyes and a cracked horn replaced him.

“Good luck,” The ancient voice cracked, and John nodded as he let him out, “Thanks for the meal and company, son!”

“Good day to you, Sir!” John called, then shut and bolted his door with a feeling of hollow finality.

[CHAPTER NINE](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/48467.html)


	9. vincentmeoblinn | Seduced By A Satyr Ch 9

John was depressed again. For a week or two after he and Sherlock had (finally!) made love, John had been on cloud nine, but then reality had hit. He was jobless, friendless, and apparently likely to remain that way.

John got up every day at a decent time and applied for jobs at every business possible in a steadily widening radius. No one would take him on with a very public rape charge on his record. It hadn’t been so long ago that he had been through a trial that was broadcast world wide thanks to Sherlock’s popularity; which had of course been restored when John had confessed, but to a different extent once he was looked on as a trauma victim. He could hardly blame anyone; who would leave a patient or customer alone with a known rapist? Still, if he didn’t find something soon he wouldn’t even be able to afford his crappy bedsit, especially since the army had cut his pension after he’d been convicted. He had some money left over in his account from his time with Sherlock, but that was quickly dwindling despite his frugal lifestyle. He’d end up homeless before long.

The ex-doctor also had a great deal of difficulty with the Satyr population of his apartment block, which proved to be much larger than he’d originally realized, about 80/20 in fact. He tried to behave towards them as Sherlock had to him, with socially acceptable physical contact, only speaking Greek unless they were already speaking English to a Human, by treating them as family immediately, and by behaving as though their possessions were his and vice versa. He made little leeway. His immediate neighbor apparently took it as a chance to take an apple or two from his grocery bag whenever she saw him, and he eventually just started buying extra and handing them to her. She was gracious about it and once when he lost a container of biscuits to a young Kidd, she happily handed him a half eaten container of her own. It was a start, but she had yet to say more than two words to him and they were usually along the lines of ‘going now’. For the most part the neighborhood Satyrs shied away from his touches, snatched back anything he thought to touch of theirs, and pretended they didn’t understand him when he spoke Greek.

All of that changed one day when he returned from another useless day hunting for jobs to see a Doe being ruthlessly beaten by a Human. He didn’t even question it. He simply tackled the Human to the ground and took out every ounce of frustration he had on the man. He nearly got knifed in his blind rage, but managed to see it in time and broke the thugs wrist. Someone must have called the police because next thing he knew he was dragged bodily off and cuffed. The Doe had fled, but John pleaded his case with the police anyway. They were determined to pin everything on him including the knife, which he _knew_ wouldn’t have any of his fingerprints on it. Still, he didn’t want to go back to jail, not even for one or two nights until they realized they’d made a mistake and released him; they might still charge him simply because he was an ex-convict and meant to keep his nose clean.

John was sitting on the curb, still arguing futilely, when suddenly the expressions of the police in front of him changed. They turned back to the ambulance treating the wounded- and smug looking- thug and suggested to him that he drop the charges in order to keep the peace with his neighbors. The Man started to argue, then looked up and past John’s shoulder and grew pale. That prompted John to twist around awkwardly due to his handcuffed wrists to see what they were staring at.

The entire populations of Satyrs, not just of his building, but of the adjoining buildings as well, were all arrayed behind him. They were either standing on the sidewalk, having moved in silently as the fog, or leaning out windows. There were even some kneeling on the roof and peering down. In this part of town, the Humans were the minority, and John had just been acknowledged as a Buck. The injured Doe was back as well, held gently in the arms of an angry looking Buck, but neither of them made a move to speak to the police. In fact, no one did, they didn’t even have angry looks on their faces. They were merely standing there making their stance known. John had to look away or else start tearing up, so instead he frowned back at the police and waited.

The Human assailant relented and the police un-cuffed John’s wrists. He rubbed at them a bit, and then hurried over to the injured Doe.

“ **I am a doctor** ,” John explained to them both, “ **I know how to treat Satyr. May I take a look at her**?”

“ **We know what you are** ,” The Buck replied, but there was no hostility in his voice.

The Buck turned with the Doe held securely in his arms, nodded his head for John to follow, and led John back up to his own apartment. John unlocked the door and guided them to the only suitable piece of furniture in the room – his bed. He turned up the covers before she was laid down on it and sat on the edge to speak to her gently.

“ **This may hurt, my lady Doe,”** John stated, using the formality Sherlock had taught him, “ **Where are you in the most pain?”**

The examination didn’t take long, and he bound her ribs up with what little medical supplies he had at his disposal.

**“She really needs more wrapping than this,** ” John instructed the Buck, **“But I don’t have anything else I can use and the sheets might cut off her circulation if I cut them up for bandages.”**

The Buck left without a word and came back carrying cases of bandages, likely from several different neighbors; so he gratefully re-wrapped her. John gently swabbed alcohol over cuts after checking the mobility of her shoulders and hips to make sure that nothing was dislocated. The ribs turned out to be the worse of it, and only one was broken. She showed no signs of internal bleeding, but that could show up later, so John told them what symptoms to be aware of and that she was to be closely monitored for the next 48 hours.

The Buck he had explained all of this to nodded his head and replied: “ **I’ll find others to help keep watch so you can get some sleep.** ”

Then he left and it took John a full ten minutes to realize the Doe was staying with him in his bed. Well, he’d shared with Sherlock before when the Faun wanted a cuddle; he could share with her as well. It was how their… Satyr… _his_ … people worked. The Buck returned with a young Doe who offered to spell John starting at 6 AM when she got done her shift at work. He readily agreed and went to make himself tea to keep himself awake as the Doe let herself back out. His door was unlocked, but he figured that was fine for now. Some of the other Satyrs might want to check up on her.

As it turned out his next visitor was an old Doe looking for relief from her arthritis, and as John had suspected she just waltzed right in. John looked her over, checking her joints, and wrote her out a prescription. He still had a license after all, and a tax number for a private practice that he’d been using to write out prescriptions for Sherlock, and occasionally Mycroft or a member of the Yard, as a private doctor. She might have issues with her insurance, if she even had any, but that was her problem to sort out. The woman smiled and pulled a few cans of food out of her giant purse, leaving them on his desk before heading out.

_I guess I’ve got my own private practice now._

[CHAPTER TEN](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/48731.html)


	10. vincentmeoblinn | Seduced By A Satyr Ch 10

John only locked his door when he was too tired to deal with another patient. For the most part they left him alone after that, and he had learned to sleep through the rattling of a doorknob as they tried to walk in. If they knocked, it was an emergency and he would bolt up as awake as he had when the alarms (or explosions) went off in Afghanistan.

His little bedsit had become full to the brim with medical supplies, cans and boxes of food, a spare cot, and some other odds and ends he had been given as ‘payment’ for his services. He sold the odds and ends online so he could pay his rent when his patients didn’t pay him in money for a bit; the landlord also let him skip months that he used his services.

John had settled into a routine that left him too busy to be depressed, but he still spent every second of the day worried about Sherlock. His limp was off and on, but the tremor in his hand vanished whenever a patient walked in the door. He knew it was psychological, but he could hardly be expected to just fix it on his own. He knew Sherlock could. His leg hadn’t ached a bit when the Satyr had pressed against him so beautifully.

John shivered, a jolt of desire going through him at the memory, but he still had several patients hovering about so he didn’t have time to indulge. He finished up his analysis of Mrs. Ferlow’s urine (he thought Sherlock might have given him the microscope, but it had just appeared so it could have been anyone) and told her to drink more cranberry juice and water, but that she showed no signs of infection. Then his phone went off.

**To: John Watson  
We are out of tea – SH**

John must have stopped breathing, because he got a bit dizzy and someone stepped forward to help him to his bed.

**“Are you ill, doctor?”** The concerned Doe asked.

“ **No, just… surprised,”** John stammered.

The Doe slipped the phone from his numb fingers and read the message, her eyes softened and she gave him a pitying look.

“ **You love him still,”** She stated, “ **He must love you, too, to forget you are apart.** ”

John swallowed and blinked up at her, trying to ask her what he should do with his eyes. He hadn’t heard from Sherlock in over a year and his memories were barely holding him off. He’d heard a bit through the news, that he was in and out of rehab and mental health facilities, but John never knew what was real and what was Sherlock’s cover. He was starting to believe it _wasn’t_ a cover. That Sherlock really had gone round the bend and John was waiting for him for no reason; not that he had any interest in any of the Does or Bucks who had solicited him since he’d been here.

“ **Pick him up his tea,”** The Doe decided, and he smiled and nodded.

XXXXXXX

John didn’t text Sherlock back; he was too desperate to see the Faun. Instead he headed over to Baker Street with the tea under one arm. It hadn’t even occurred to him that Mrs. Hudson might not let him in, but there she stood, looking torn but definitely blocking the doorway.

“He texted me,” John explained lamely, “He said he was out of tea.”

“He mentioned that this morning, but I haven’t had a moment to pick it up,” She replied, worrying her bottom lip.

“I see, well, here it is then, could you just… leave it for him?”

Mrs. Hudson studied the tin in John’s hand as though it were one of Sherlock’s amputated limbs, before finally accepting it.

“He didn’t tell me, you know,” Mrs. Hudson said, not meeting his eyes, “He told you. He still does that, dear; talks to you when you’re not around.”

_Oh, Zeus, Sherlock._

“Let me see him? Just for a minute?” John pleaded shamelessly, “You could stay in the room, I won’t even go near him.”

“He’s not in, John,” Mrs. Hudson whispered through tears, “He’s never in. He goes out all nights getting high and doing god only knows what to his body and mind.”

John closed his eyes, steadying himself, “Can I wait?”

Mrs. Hudson hesitated a moment longer, then stepped aside and led John up to the flat.

It was exactly how John had left it: Sherlock’s organized chaos. Some of John’s things were still here, in fact most of them were. He saw them lying about as though they simply belonged: A mold-filled mug that probably hadn’t been washed since he left it sit there, a book he’d been half through, his jacket hanging up by the door. No wonder Sherlock talked to him still.

Mrs. Hudson bustled into the kitchen and left the tea for Sherlock in the cupboard. John sat down in his usual chair and stared at Sherlock’s, trying to figure out what he should do next.

“I’ll just be downstairs…” Mrs. Hudson’s voice trailed off and she practically fled the flat.

John wasn’t there more than twenty minutes when Lestrade burst into the flat, looking pissed off and glaring daggers at John.

“The fuck do you think you’re doing here?” Lestrade snarled.

“Sherlock…”

“Is out of your life! Well and out!”

“He texted me and…”

“He fucking _talks_ to you! All damn day! Says it’s his skull, and it had always been named John and that’s why you were the perfect replacement, but I’m not stupid! He’s off his rocker because of you!”

“In my defense, he did _talk to a skull_ long before I ever showed up.”

Lestrade blinked and the corner of his mouth twitched, but John couldn’t tell if it was amusement or anger.

“You don’t get it, do you? You have no idea what you’ve done to him. What he’s been like since you _raped_ him.”

John winced. Despite the years in between he still felt guilty for not leaving the flat when he should have or just having a wank sans sex toy in his room like he was supposed to. If he just hadn’t come downstairs, if he just hadn’t kicked in the door, if he just hadn’t thrown himself at his flatmate… Moriarty would have found another and possibly more deadly way to destroy Sherlock.

“I paid for that. I did my time. In fact I’m still paying for it. Sherlock’s obviously forgiven me, or he wouldn’t have texted me!” John stood up, pacing angrily, not realizing he’d left his cane behind again. He was limping badly, but he’d gotten used to that in prison and often forgot he had a cane to lean on.

“You did _half_ your time, and you’ll never be done paying for it in my book!”

“It was a bloody _mistake!_ I didn’t tie him down and fuck him raw! I _gave_ myself to him and lost three pints of blood for it! Yes, I know it was my own fault, yes, I know he couldn’t consent, but he wasn’t screaming at me to stop, Greg! Quite the bloody opposite!”

Greg chinned him, and John admitted he had it coming even as he flew off the floor and tackled the DI. They rolled around on the floor for a bit, John snarling like a wild thing while Lestrade made an honest effort to throttle him. He did manage to get his hands around John’s throat for a moment, but John got him in the groin and they both rolled apart. There were several minutes of panting as John coughed and tried to get his breath back and Lestrade cupped his injured gonads.

“You fight like a fucking Satyr, you know that?”

“Thank you.”

“Wasn’t a compliment.”

“Yes it was.”

“Okay, yeah.”

“I love him, Greg. I know I don’t deserve him, but I do love him. I won’t hurt him again. I’ll kill myself first.”

Lestrade levered himself up and stared at John through narrowed eyes.

“You still can’t be here. He won’t be able to deal with you. He can barely deal with me.”

John closed his eyes a moment, willing himself not to cry, and levered himself to his feet. Lestrade grabbed his arm when he staggered and helped him up.

“Thanks,” John muttered, and took his jacket off the wall. He hadn’t brought it with him, but it was still his and Sherlock would notice it gone and know he was there even if everyone else tried to hide it. Lestrade didn’t stop him.

[CHAPTER ELEVEN](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/49145.html)


	11. vincentmeoblinn | Seduced By A Satyr Ch 11

It was Bacchanalia, a festival that’s sole purpose seemed to be to get drunk and fondle each other in darkened corners, and John was seriously considering having more than a few glasses of wine when a commotion in the hall caused John to step out. All of the flat doors were open today and everyone was wandering from place to place socializing. His own flat housed quite a few inebriated Bucks, especially since their floor was almost all bedsits as opposed to the first two floors full of proper flats, making most of the occupants bachelor Bucks. Lestrade was shouldering his way through a group of Satyr that didn’t want to let him through when he’d mentioned he was there to see John. One had turned and yelled in Greek for John to run, that they’d hold him off.

“Sherlock’s been shot. He’s calling for you,” Lestrade yelled over their shoulders.

Shouting and bleating erupted around them and John found himself with a firm hand on his arm guiding him after Lestrade’s retreating form as the very Earth spun out of control beneath him. He glanced down in confusion and found that, yes, his feet were moving forward, but he was under someone else’s propulsion. Margaret, the Doe who still said little more than ‘going now’ to him, was dragging him after her as she followed Lestrade’s retreating form. Someone made gestures to her and she paused to make them back, but John’s addled mind didn’t process it.

They all clamored into Lestrade’s car and John shamelessly clung to Maggie as she petted his hair and crooned softly to him. He wasn’t sure if she was speaking Satyrese or just making comforting noises, but he absorbed it eagerly. Lestrade put on the siren and they made record time getting to St. Bart’s, in fact they beat Sherlock there.

“He was all they way across town,” Lestrade stated, “but I insisted they bring him here. He wouldn’t get the right treatment otherwise.”

John groaned and pressed himself against the Doe’s neck breathing in her comforting scent. She wrapped her arms around him and held him tight. Lestrade cleared his throat.

“You might want your girlfriend to stay out of sight once he shows up. You might upset him more.” Lestrade’s voice was tense and clearly offended.

“She’s not my girlfriend. She’s my neighbor. I buy her apples and she buys me biscuits,” John replied lamely.

“And you snuggle her up, then? Why don’t you just buy your own damn biscuits?”

John laughed. He had once shaken his head in confusion of the Satyr habit of taking anything in plain sight, but now he understood it. It was a social gesture, like inviting someone in to tea. John kept a bowl full of apples and oranges on his desk and people took from them and left him things they knew he liked; it showed they paid attention to him enough to know his likes and dislikes. It applied to other people’s homes as well. Many a day John had felt melancholy he had snatched up something he’d bought when thinking of a neighbor, headed over to their flat and let himself in or knocked to be let in, handed it to them and was wordlessly let in to snag something off their table. It needn’t be food, either; he’d found band-aids, toilet paper (he always forgot to pick it up and that was well known since the toilets on that floor were communal) and once a DVD sitting there clearly for him the next time he showed up. They would sit and it would be a conversation starter. It made him think of all the times he’d found Sherlock with his things and the poor Faun had probably been lost as to why John had a temper about it. Sherlock had been reaching out to him, showing John he had an interest in things that John did, but the Human had misunderstood and thought the Buck disrespectful. If Satyrs didn’t want to share something or needed it for themselves then they tucked it away in cabinets or in their bedrooms if they had private ones.

“It’s a custom,” John explained, knowing that barely touched the tip of the iceburg.

“The cuddling or the food?”

“Both.”

“You do know you’re human right?”

“Not really,” John replied with a sad smile.

“Barmy, the lot of you,” Lestrade sighed, but there was no venom behind it.

They sat down in the lobby seats just as the ambulance doors burst open and Sherlock was rushed past them in a flurry of color. John heard his name called and Lestrade had to hold him back so he didn’t chase after Sherlock. John turned and pressed against Lestrade, not recalling the man was Human, and clung to him as he fought back tears. Sherlock didn’t need him breaking down. The Faun had been conscious enough to call for him; that was something.

Maggie pulled him from Lestrade’s clearly uncomfortable embrace and tugged him back to the chairs. She sat and he sank to the floor with his head buried in the short fur on her thighs. She carded her fingers through his hair and it took him a minute to realize the distressed noises were coming from himself. He sounded like a Satyr! He raised his head, and sure enough the other Satyr in the room had moved closer, forming a little knot of strangers seeking each other’s company and consolation. A little Satyr girl with a stuffed bunny clutched under one arm and her other arm held at an awkward angle was making similar noises to John’s as she sat in her mother’s lap. She and John’s eyes met briefly and the Kidd gave him a supportive smile, which he returned.

She made a few grunting and snorting noises but John only shrugged helplessly. He might be making the noises, but he didn’t know what he was saying or if they were even words. Perhaps just a basic ‘I’m hurt’ distressed sound.

“ **You have to speak Greek to Satyr that don’t have horns, honey,”** The mother corrected gently.

“ **Oh, where is your hurt, Buck?”** The Kidd sniffled.

“ **My Buck is hurt,** ” John explained gently, knowing making the word ‘Buck’ possessive meant an intimate relationship and the girl would likely understand they were ‘married’, “ **I miss him terribly and it makes my heart hurt.”**

“ **That sounds worse than my arm,** ” The girl decided.

**“I think your arm might feel worse right now, but hopefully it will heal fast,”** John consoled.

**“Heart’s don’t heal quickly,** ” The mother informed, seemingly speaking to them both. John and the Kidd nodded, and snuggled closer to their respective comforters.

Lestrade hovered away from them, unable to take part in the comfort that John was freely given, and John felt bad for him. He wanted to extend an invitation to join them, but wasn’t sure if that were possible. Eventually Maggie must have noted his repeated glances, because she eased John’s head onto a nearby Buck’s lap and went to fetch Lestrade. John glanced up at the Buck, who was holding an icepack over his head, and was given a gentle pat on his shoulder. This Buck had thick, course hair on his legs and John ran his fingers through it to comfort himself. The Buck mimicked his movements with John’s hair. Lestrade was sat down in the seat Maggie had vacated, looking bewildered, and John and Maggie shifted to lay their heads on one of each of his legs. Lestrade stiffened a bit, then blew some air out his mouth and forced himself to relax. John held Maggie’s hands and stared into her baleful eyes.

A door slammed somewhere nearby and everyone jumped except Maggie. That’s when a few things clicked into place and he realized why Maggie was so silent all the time. Maggie was deaf, or mostly so, and probably only able to say a few words comfortably. John wished he knew sign language and made a mental note to learn it later. A glance up made John chuckle as Lestrade found his shoulder full of the Buck with the head injury… who was starting to drift off.

“Greg, don’t let him fall asleep,” John cautioned, “In fact, he should have been seen before some of the other’s here. I’m going to go say something.”

John gave Maggie’s hands a squeeze to let her know he’d be back and headed to the welcome desk to inform them they had a potentially deathly ill patient on their hands.

“Oh, them,” The nurse scoffed in frustration, “They never say anything. They just sign in and then sit and we have to go around and find out if they’re bad off. Someone must not have noticed him yet. I’ll get someone to see him right away.”

“They don’t say anything because they don’t expect fair treatment,” John stated without thinking his response through.

The nurse stiffened, “We give _everyone_ equal treatment here.”

“I know that, but they don’t, and some of them can’t read so your signs are useless,” John replied, pointing to the one over the desk echoing her claim, “They get everything from spit on to attacked outside of here and don’t expect different.”

“I can’t fix the _world_ , honey!” The nurse snapped irritably.

“No, and I’m not expecting you to, but if even one person makes the effort the word will spread; ripples in a pond. Instead of having a sign in sheet, why don’t one of you make sure to greet everyone who walks in the door?”

“They don’t like us talking to them,” The second nurse argued.

“They’re just afraid of you,” John replied, shaking his head, “They don’t know how you’re going to treat them. If you make physical contact they’ll relax around you.”

“Are you nuts? We could get fired. They think everyone’s out to molest them!”

“A touch on the hand, that’s all, and a smile. They’ll react well, I promise you. Just never touch the Kidds or mention them unless you’re treating them. Ask the parent permission first. Bucks are easier; they’re more open and less skittish. Try it on him.”

The first nurse gave him a rebellious look and headed out to see the injured Buck. She did as he suggested, reaching out and touching the back of his hand and smiling. He recoiled at first, and then leaned forward receptively. When she asked him to follow her, he got up and slipped an arm through hers, letting her guide him towards the doors that led to the triage area. The nurse gave him a baffled look as she passed him, but John just smiled supportively and gently touched a hand to the Buck’s back as he passed. It was ignored, but John hadn’t expected a response. He went back to his group and they all moved in closer. Maggie had taken the Buck’s seat so John knelt at her feet with his legs tucked at an angle the way Satyr sat and put his head on her lap.

John had drifted off, soothed by soft thrumming noises from the comforters and the wine he’d drank earlier. Lestrade woke him and they shuffled off, John noting that the group around him had completely changed while he’d been out. They were guided to the recovery area, and further down the hall to where Satyr were typically kept; even a hospital that claimed equality kept them all segregated, sometimes for safety sake since you never knew how mixed race roommates might respond to each other.

Sherlock was awake, though he looked groggy, and peered up at them curiously as they entered. That all changed when his eyes focused on John.

“You weren’t there. I got shot and you _weren’t there.”_ Sherlock accused, his eyes full of confusion and pain.

“Oh, god, I’m sorry Sherlock. I’m so sorry,” John grasped his fingertips and carefully sat down on the edge of the bed, avoiding wires and tubes.

John leaned forward, hugging Sherlock awkwardly as he avoided aggravating his injury. He used the opportunity to whisper into his ear in Greek.

“ **Is it all settled?** ”

Sherlock gave a minute nod, and turned his head, stilling John’s entire body as hot breath touched his ear in a deceptively intimate caress.

“ **Moran nearly took me down with him, but that’s the last of Moriarty’s web. Lestrade is clear. Donovan and Anderson weren’t official players; we’ll get them on some charge someday. Maybe frame them. Moriarty is vulnerable. I need your help to take him out.** ”

John leaned back, staring love into Sherlock’s eyes. His detective was back, but the worry and fear in his eyes was real. Sherlock had been legitimately alone all this time, separated from John and on the outs with Lestrade. He’d never had many ties to even his own people’s community. He’d been injured and found himself in need of the press of warm bodies his kind was used to. John provided it now by having Maggie help him gently move Sherlock to the edge of the bed so he could climb in.

“The fuck are you doing?” Lestrade asked, but his voice lacked bite. He was just confused and alarmed.

“Keeping Sherlock company,” John replied, laying the bed down and crawling in with the tired detective. Sherlock gasped his hand tightly and drifted off almost immediately.

“ **Going now** ,” Maggie stated riffling through the bedside table and finding a stub pencil and a scrap of paper, probably for taking phone messages if the person paid for the service. She jotted a note in Greek.

“ **Will sent other Satyr** ,” the poorly phrased message instructed.

John nodded his understanding and Maggie pressed a kiss to both their foreheads before heading out. John kept himself alert until a Buck showed up and placed himself by the door as though he were a sentry. John was surprised to see the Buck was wearing pants despite the hot July weather, until he noticed the bulge when the Buck turned to greet Lestrade. They were taking Sherlock’s safety seriously, it seemed, and he wondered just how alone Sherlock had been. He didn’t bother to wonder how the Buck had gotten the weapon in; he’d probably snuck in the hospital through a window or service entrance. Many people simply didn’t notice Satyr if they were in the janitorial areas or wearing the uniform of a worker. They were invisible and unimportant to most individuals.

John closed his eyes and let sleep claim him, given more comfort than he thought was possible by Sherlock’s scent beside him. He was home at last.

[CHAPTER TWELVE](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/49342.html)

[ALTERNATE CHAPTER TWELVE](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/49537.html)


	12. vincentmeoblinn | Seduced By A Satyr Ch 12

Lestrade stepped into 221B and stared around him in horror. Only years of experience stopped him from dropping to his knees in and sobbing at the sight before him. John had taken an electric body saw to Sherlock; chopping off his horns, hooves, and ears. Sherlock had tried to defend himself, that much was obvious from the gashes on his arms, but the wounds that had killed him had been his hooves. Since he had cut below the thickest part of the Saphenous artery Sherlock had bled out slowly, he may have even seen John leave. Not that the brilliant Consulting Detective would be able to tell him so now. Only his remains would yield clues to this final grisly murder.

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

John fled down an alleyway, drenched in blood and clutching a medium sized electric saw in his hands, the cord occasionally tangling in his legs and tripping him up. He knew every backstreet in London, so avoiding the police was as easy as breathing. Moriarty, however, was harder to evade and appeared before him for a third time, smirking out of the window of a fancy black car not unlike the kind Mycroft would drive.

_Mycroft is another Satyr outside the community. What does that say about him? What does it say about Human society that we only respect Satyrs that have abandoned their culture?_

“Going my way?” Moriarty crooned, and John glanced both ways before dragging a gun out of his pocket and pointing it at Moriarty, his hand shaking comically. “Now, now, Johnny, there’s no need for that. You’ve just gotten rid of a pest for me. I’m interested in discussing that with you.”

“Go to hell!” John shouted, inching backwards.

“Oh, probably, but not today. What about you?”

John froze, studying Moriarty, “If I go with you… what’s my guarantee that I’ll live?”

“About 80/20 in your favor.”

“What… wait, 80%?”

“Give or take.”

A siren sounded in the distance and John jumped in the vehicle. Moriarty’s driver sped off and John obediently handed his gun to the Satyr, his hand shaking too much to hold it properly anyway. He placed the saw down on the floor, ignoring the chunk of fur-covered flesh that dripped onto the seat beside him during the transfer.

“Where _have_ you been hiding these last couple of years, Johnny boy?” Moriarty asked conversationally, also ignoring the flesh, fur, and blood.

“I was selling drugs down in the country,” John explained quietly, “but I was passing myself off as a doctor under my sister’s name. No one even guessed, especially since I know her ID information.”

“You stole your sister’s identity! Oh, that’s rich.”

“Yes, well, she’s sort of a lush. She won’t miss it.”

Moriarty laughed and then slipped an arm around John’s body, tugging him close and running his tongue up his neck. John moaned and shivered, his hand flying down to grasp Moriarty’s leg.

“Oh, that’s…” John stammered, but left his sentence hanging.

“Very nice, yes, and real Satyr blood on your neck, too. Is it Sherlock’s?”

“Yes,” John croaked, sobbing a bit, “I didn’t mean to kill him, he just… He wouldn’t stop _screaming_.”

“What were you doing to make him scream?” Moriarty murmured, his voice sultry in John’s ear.

“I was just touching him. I know how he likes to be touched; he didn’t have to make such a fuss. I wouldn’t have reinjured him. I’m a doctor; I know how to fuck without aggravating a wound. I did it all the time in Afghanistan. My patients _never_ complained.”

“I’ll bet they didn’t,” Moriarty chortled.

“What am I going to do? I just wanted to help make him better.”

“How so?”

“I… I cut off his horns and ears. I thought… the hooves… I wanted to do a professional job of it, but he fought me off! If he’d just let me…! Then I lost my temper and used the saw instead…”

“You were a surgeon during the war?”

“Yes, specializing in both Human and Satyr, though I hadn’t worked on a Satyr before, just studied it and worked off cadavers in school.”

“You know how to create such a… transformation?”

“Yes, but it’s a long procedure. It has to be done in chunks. The hooves are the most taxing, and they require a donor for the feet.”

“If I could find a donor?”

“Oh, I already have one. The donor is at St. Bart’s waiting for me to call it in, but I don’t see how that helps…”

“Not for _him_ you imbecile! For me!”

John was silent a moment, then turned to Moriarty cheerfully, “What’s your blood type?”

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Three hours ago…

“Moriarty isn’t a part of the Satyr community,” Sherlock explained, “That’s why you were safer there. I’m really not a part of it either, though I am respected within it.”

John and Sherlock were back home in 221B, with Sherlock resting on the couch comfortably while John waited on him hand a hoof.

“Why is that, Sher? The support, the friendliness, the companionship…”

“The _communication_ , John; I’m a sociopath, remember? It’s less obvious with my own kind since I grew up with our customs and such, but after more than an hour in my company most Satyr are as frustrated and disgusted with me as Human’s are.” Sherlock stated, with his own brand of disgust.

“I’m not,” John reminded.

Sherlock smiled at him softly, “You are a rare exception, John, which is why I was willing to do anything to keep you. Including lie on stand and let him go free. We’ll face him together.”

Sherlock motioned John in and he leaned forward to press a kiss to the Satyr’s full lips.

“So how do we defeat Moriarty by utilizing his lack of standing in the Satyr community?”

“It isn’t just a lack of standing, John,” Sherlock stated with a shake of his head that set his ears and curls bobbing. John melted a bit. He’d forgotten how much he loved that, “It’s an exile, or perhaps excommunication? I’m not sure which word describes it better. Satyrs are openly hostile towards him.”

“Why?”

“He’s arranged Satyr deaths and set back their rights by decades by financially supporting Humans during times of political upheaval.”

“ _Why_?” John repeated with emphasis.

“My theory is that he hates his own kind, that he no longer sees himself as a Satyr, much as you no longer see yourself as Human. All of his higher people were Human, John: every single one. The only Satyrs in his organization were drug addicts and pushers, people he could control or threaten.”

John leaned back on their couch and thought about that for a moment.

“What does that say about me? Or you? Do you hate your own kind?”

Sherlock thought for a moment, his head cocked to one side, and John took the time to ruminate on their situation.

“I suppose that we’ve avoided a potentially terrible fate. I could easily see you and I in the roles of Moran and Moriarty.”

“Moran and Moriarty were…”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t answer my other question.”

Sherlock smiled, but there was no humor in it: “I don’t hate my own kind, but I’m not fond of our circumstances. You’ve faced prejudice yourself of late; can you imagine facing it from the time you were born? Being picked last or even beaten during gym because you looked different? Having the teacher avoid calling on you? Facing persecution by your peers, and often people far inferior than you, simply because you didn’t think the same way they did? Can you imagine what that does to a teenager? To a young child? To a toddler?”

“A toddler, but…”

“But a toddler is innocent? You think the children we have someday would be spared persecution until they reached a certain age?”

John’s head reeled. First at the thought of a tiny Sherlock, not even knee high like the size of the one on the tube all those years ago, being bullied and ill-treated- even by adults who should have known to care for children. Second, at the realization that Sherlock wanted, and was planning on having, children with him someday.

“I’d protect them. Every day if I had to,” John promised.

“You would have to protect them every day, John; every day for the rest of your life, and then hope you raised them to be strong enough to carry on without you.”

John thought for a time, and then refocused on their original discussion while Sherlock nursed his tea in an apparently melancholy state.

“You mentioned a way to use his exile from the community against him?”

“Yes, he doesn’t notice us, John. We’re invisible to him. He had no idea where you were once you left prison. Can you believe that? Moran was looking for you and was still confused when I caught up with him. He’d been searching outside of London. Be grateful Harry can take care of herself; he nearly went after her.”

John felt his skin go clammy, “Is she still in danger?”

“I’m not sure, but I’ve sent her warning anyway. Who knows if she’ll take it, though?”

“Probably not, knowing Harry,” John sighed in frustration, “Then how do we end this, and fast?”

Sherlock smiled, “You’re going to kill me.”

[ALTERNATE CHAPTER TWELVE](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/49537.html)   


[CHAPTER THIRTEEN](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/49676.html)

 


	13. vincentmeoblinn | Seduced By A Satyr Ch 13

No one ever noticed the coroner, but they were there at every murder, suicide, and drowning. They were in the background; slipping in to give time of death, perhaps a possible cause, and then slipping back out while forensics gave things a working over. Then they would slip back in while everyone else was heading off, talking fast and planning their strategy, and scoop up the remains with gloved hands, shovels, and occasionally tweezers. 

So when Molly leaned over Sherlock’s broken body, checked for a pulse, and then took a liver temperature, no one even noticed that she didn’t _really_ stab the thermometer into his body. Sherlock’s breath was so slow that it was virtually invisible, so much so that Molly held a few fingers over his mouth just to feel it and reassure herself. 

“You going to be able to handle this, Molls?” Lestrade asked.

“Oh! Yes, um, he’s, well obviously he’s dead,” Molly squeaked, her voice cracking intentionally, “Time of death 2110. Most likely cause of death is blood loss.”

“Are those track marks on his arms?”

“Looks like. I’ll run a tox when I get back,” Molly replied, and then stepped back for them to process the scene.

Molly held her breath as she stood back to watch the experts run over the scene. The forensics wouldn’t find anything; Sherlock had reassured her of that. The blood was Sherlock’s, gathered over time and kept in his own fridge; even Mrs. Hudson wouldn’t have questioned the blood there since it was normal for Sherlock to have odd things in his fridge. 

“Hey, Molly!” Anderson shouted, causing Molly to jump and squeak a bit. A few people laughed and she blushed hotly, “Are the horns your area or mine?”

“Oh, mine I should think. Body parts,” Molly replied, grinning like a fool and earning a few headshakes.

“Yeah, but they’re like finger nails, so that’s my area,” Anderson argued.

“Oh, but… they have blood on them, so my area.”

“I collect blood all the time.”

“Well… um…”

“Anderson takes the horns,” Lestrade grunted from the corner. He looked pale and drawn. Molly felt awful for him and Mrs. Hudson. She hoped Sherlock knew what he was doing.

She also wanted those horns. When she’d leaned over to examine Sherlock she’d realized to her horror that they were really cut off. That made her apprehensive. Sherlock had told her to expect a _realistic_ crime scene, but she hadn’t expected to see Sherlock de-horned. It was cruel, had bled terribly, and must have been horribly painful. It led her to worry what else was real. Had they cut off his ears? Certainly they couldn’t have cut off his hooves, it would have killed him. What about his tail? She couldn’t see from this angle, but it wasn’t lying about obviously.

“Hooves are mine, and ears, and tail if you find it,” Molly spat out. Anderson looked at her as though she were nuts.

_ Keep it together, Molly. Keep it together. Don’t stand out. Be the invisible coroner. The creepy person who scoops up bodies and hurries them off to poke and prod them in a dark cold basement. Nobody notices people like that, because they don’t want to see them. Wonder what they get up to. Wonder why they’d want to work in a job like that. Just. Stay. Invisible.  _

Eventually everyone headed off and it was just she and the two assistants. They hurried in with the stretcher and the plastic bin that extra bits went into. Molly stepped up and stopped them before they could scoop up Sherlock’s ears and hooves. She picked them up herself instead. They were real, but only an exam at the lab would tell her if they were Sherlock’s or some other Satyr’s. If they were Sherlock’s real body parts then she hoped John had found a way to cauterize the wounds so Sherlock didn’t bleed out for real. 

Finally Sherlock was sealed in a body bag which Molly made a show of tucking him into, to say goodbye, and carted off. Once at St. Bartholomew’s Molly was left with her bag full of Sherlock Holmes. She quickly tugged it open the second she was sure her assistants weren’t going to come back for a jacket or something. Sherlock was in there, holding the tube she’d slipped him to his face and breathing steadily. He smiled at her through the fogged mask. 

“Good job, Molls,” Sherlock stated seriously.

“R-really?”

“Absolutely. You were brilliant,” Sherlock sat up, and then swayed a bit as though dizzy.

“Oh! You really did cut off your feet!”

“What? No. Don’t be ridiculous. Just a bit carsick is all. Not the best way to ride, that. _I_ wouldn’t recommend it to the dead.”

Sherlock swung his legs off the edge of the metal table and Molly immediately noticed what hadn’t been obvious when he’d been lying down; his calves were too long.

“They’re false!”

“Wonderful thing about Satyr legs, all that hair makes it very easy to pass off a fake limb… or in this case, stub,” Sherlock tugged one off his foot and waved the grizzly bit of Hollywood glamour.

“Your ears?”

Sherlock rooted about in his hair, the curls plastered down by drying blood and fake gore, and tugged them out of the tacky nest. The fake shredded stubs came out with a bit of tugging and a few winces. 

“Your horns,” Molly said, without question this time.

“Yes, bit upsetting that. I tried using a wig, but it was too unreliable. Well, they will grow back in time. John was careful not to cut too low.” 

“It must have been awful for you.”

“Oh, no, I’d gotten my hands on some Novocain. I didn’t feel a thing. John, however, has assured me he shall have nightmares for the rest of his life.”

“I expect we all will. Poor Greg and Mrs. Hudson.”

Sherlock had the grace to look sorry for a moment, but it passed rather fast. 

“Hand me a fresh oxygen cylinder, Molly. We have a madman to catch.”

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

John was calm despite the guns and eyes trained on him; he’d had worse in Afghanistan and his hatred of Moriarty kept him tightly wound enough. Instead he focused on preparing the operating table, laying out the instruments, listing his needs and making fake googley eyes at Moriarty whenever he glanced at the man.

“You’re going to be breathtaking once I’ve fixed you,” John promised, “Even more so than you are now.”

Moriarty preened and John pictured Sherlock and sighed as though love struck. 

“I’m going to need at least two assistants to do this properly. Molly was willing to help, she promised to find me someone else but hadn’t yet last we had spoken. I suppose I could manage with just her but… do you have a doctor here? He need not be a surgeon, just someone who can help and knows his way around a surgery.”

“We have a surgeon. He’s used to pulling out bullets and administering antidotes, but he’ll do in a pinch,” Moriarty replied with a smirk.

“Fantastic. Brilliant. I can’t believe we’re really doing this. It’s been my _dream_ for _years_ ; ever since before prison. Sherlock was always so snide about it; thought he didn’t need to change. I think he thought the world needed to change for him. Can you believe that?”

“Oh, the world is going to change, Johnny boy. It _is_ going to change, but I doubt very much Sherlock would have liked the outcome.”

“Yes, well, he won’t be around to bother about it.”

Moriarty walked up to John as he was adjusting the lighting to suit his needs. He’d had them bring in and sterilize several flood lamps from outside the building. John hadn’t been surprised to find they were holed up on a rather posh sky rise. It fitted Moriarty’s image. 

“Do you need more lights?” Moriarty breathed against John’s neck.

“No, I think that about does it,” John replied, feeling his skin crawl but trying to look pleased.

“Do you need… anything else?” Moriarty’s hand slipped around John’s body and cupped his groin.

“I… um… just a… question… I hope you don’t find it… invasive…” John stammered as Moriarty began to rub his crotch in earnest, his erection pressed into John’s hip. 

“Oh, I hope you’re going to be _very_ invasive, _doctor_ Watson.”

“Do you… shave?” John threw out.

“My legs?” Moriarty asked.

“And… well… everything else,” He decided, figuring the first bit wasn’t shocking enough.

“Yes, of course,” Moriarty replied, sounding both surprised and insulted, “What do you take me for? Some sort of Animal?”

“Oh, no, of course not,” John replied quickly, reminding himself this was a _very_ dangerous Satyr, even with his network practically in tatters around him, “It’s just, you know, Sherlock refused. So did the Bucks in prison… well… they really didn’t have a choice.”

“Oh, so you were with them, too, were you?” Moriarty asked, his voice going teasing and his fingertips digging into John’s hip painfully, “Did they make you their Nanny? Did you like it?”

“A bit, but do you want to know what I liked best?” John asked, turning around and leaning in to whisper into Moriarty’s ear.

“Tell me, Johnny,” Moriarty demanded, his eyes going from violent to aroused again.

“When I made them mine,” John whispered back. 

Moriarty shivered and John silently begged Sherlock for forgiveness as he tugged Moriarty against himself and bit his lip savagely. Moriarty was mewling in what might have been an attractive way, had John desired the wicked Faun, but instead he was frantically picturing the time he’d fucked Sherlock in the bedsit and trying _very_ hard to get… well… hard.

Moriarty was practically ripping John’s clothes off, and while he was glad to be rid of the hideous garments he’d been given upon arriving – his own clothes taken to be ‘analyzed’ to see if his story was true – John was not thrilled to be naked around the aroused Satyr. Oh, yes, he’d been naked in front of plenty of Satyrs when he’d been at his practice, in the summer it was simply more comfortable, but this one wanted more than a check-up. 

John almost laughed when Moriarty’s posh business suit came off and he hopped up on the operating table to flaunt his rather… unimpressive cock. Suddenly Sherlock looked huge and John was feeling a bit well endowed himself. 

“Oh no, not like that,” John purred, “I want a look at that tail I’m going to cut off tomorrow.”

Moriarty groaned eagerly and rolled over and John nearly gagged. It was hideous. Now he knew why they never showed shaved tails in the Satyr porn he’d watched. It looked like a lonely, deformed finger sprouting out from above his arsehole, and it thrashed about helplessly like a fish on land. To top it off, Moriarty’s ‘fur’ hadn’t been a solid color like Sherlock’s mostly was, so the skin beneath wasn’t either. The oddly soft flesh, which felt a bit like velvet when John ran his hands over it to stall for time, was mottled white with brown patches that looked more like a disease than a natural marking. He was probably lovely when his fur grew in, with a bold pattern and quite a bit of curls, but this way was just grotesque; like a one of those hairless cats. 

There was no way in hell John was getting hard, so he stalled again.

“Em… do you have any condoms? It’s just… all that time in prison…”

Moriarty growled in frustration, “Jacket pocket!”

John dove for it, gave Moriarty’s arse a rub and a slap to keep him interested, and pulled out several condoms and lube while he glanced around himself for something else to keep the bastard occupied. He’d forgotten the guards. Most of them looked disgusted, but they also looked amused by his predicament, and one of them was barely holding his laughter in. John made a face at that one and he nodded his head towards the nearby counter and an otoscope. John gave him a pleading look and the man slipped forward, snatched up, and tossed it to him. John caught it pressed the viewing end between his thighs. He put one unrolled condom around the tip to make it feel more realistic then slipped another on. One of the guards to his right gave him an approving nod as though he’d been genius. The guys in front and to the left had it bad; they really couldn’t make any kind of face or Moriarty might see them. 

John lubed up his impromptu phallus and fingered Moriarty with the remaining slick substance. The man was already quite moist but it only made John want to retch. He leaned forward then, holding the scope in place with two fingers – he was being poked horribly, but luckily the sharp end was down – and slid it slowly into Moriarty’s body. It had been warmed by his ministrations, but the hardness probably caught Moriarty off guard and he moaned and hissed a bit. 

John waited a moment for the Satyr to adjust then began to thrust, slowly building up as he heard the man respond. He made sure to add his own pants and grunts in, and scratched the Buck’s back up at one point. Moriarty was close and he could tell he needed a bit more, but he dared not lean on his prostate more or the hard edge would hurt him and bring on his wrath. Instead, he reached around, with a feeling of absolute disgust, and fisted the Satyr’s aching prick. Within seconds he was climaxing fast and hard, and rolled almost immediately into another orgasm. Moriarty nearly went limp and John faked his own orgasm while holding the creature in place. 

John slipped the tool into his own clothing as he tugged his trousers up and gave Moriarty an appreciative glance when he turned lazily around. 

“Better than Sherlock?”

“Better than _anyone_. I don’t think I’ve ever been so hard in my _life_ ,” John gushed.

The guard who had tossed him the tool nearly lost it and Moriarty glanced at him coyly. 

“Something you want, Evans?”

“No, Sir, just… admiring your beauty.”

Moriarty nodded in understanding and then gave the room a look of disgust.

“You’d better sanitize this, doctor. Someone’s been _having sex_ in your nice clean operating room.”

“I’ll get right on that, Sir,” John agreed.

Moriarty snickered, gave him a wink, and sauntered off; bare ass naked with his nasty stub swaying happily in the air. John was barely able to hold off before he retched into the nearest sink. 

His reward was a round of applause from his guards. 

[CHAPTER FOURTEEN](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/50051.html)


	14. vincentmeoblinn | Seduced By A Satyr Ch 14

John had never seen Molly look more petrified then she did as she pulled the meat truck into Moriarty’s parking garage. She stepped out, shaking like a leaf, and fumbled the keys for the back three times before John finally took them from her. The body bag was wheeled out on a stretcher and they encountered their first problem. Moriarty wanted to see his new ‘feet’.

Molly, however, seemed completely unfazed all of the sudden. She stepped forward, unzipped the bottom of the bag, and displayed a pair of frozen human feet with a TV hostess smile. Moriarty made an alarming show of caressing them… then made John touch them.

“They’re very smooth. He must not have worked on his feet,” John stated with a smile, not knowing what the fuck to say to your fake lover about his future feet.

It must have been the right thing, because Moriarty grabbed him and snogged him. It took every ounce of his concentration not to puke down the Satyr’s throat. Finally he released John and whispered that he wanted the feet done first. John smiled and nodded and they all filed in to the surgery where John and Molly hauled the body bag up and deposited it into a freezer on the floor nearby. They shut it and started discussing the surgery, going over which veins, tendons, and muscles to sever in great detail, John pointing them out on Moriarty himself, until the Faun blanched and excused himself from the room. 

“That joke about tendons looking like blood covered rubber bands was gold, Molls,” John snickered as he opened the freezer and unzipped the bag.

A shivering Sherlock, wrapped in thermal blankets and crouched with the legs and feet of a corpse, was tugged out of the bag and stood gingerly on his hooves.

“Bloody buggering hell that was cold,” Sherlock chattered, and then pressed against John for warmth. 

“Shit!” John hissed, but wrapped his arms gamely around his lover. 

“Now what?” Molly asked with a squeak. 

“Now we cut off his horns, feet, ears, and tail,” John replied with a shrug, “While Sherlock does his thing and snoops about to make sure the bastard doesn’t have any other nasty surprises waiting for us.”

John was guiding Sherlock around the room to increase his circulation as he explained this, but Molly was staring up at a camera in the corner in horror.

“No, it’s deactivated. It’s playing a six hour loop,” John told her consolingly.

“Six hour, why six hour?” Molly asked.

“Because less would be too obvious,” Sherlock answered as he dropped the blanket to reveal he was wearing an oddly baggy human garb, quite unlike his usual, but very like the bloke he’d be impersonating today.

“I just hope he doesn’t want to see the tapes of me buggering him,” John sighed, rubbing at his face. 

Sherlock stiffened beside him and John hastened to reassure him: “No! I didn’t actually! Fuck, I couldn’t have! He was… _shaved_. It was foul! I used an otoscope.” 

Sherlock turned a look of horror on John, which slowly morphed to one of delighted amusement. 

“You fucked _Jim Moriarty_ with an _otoscope_?!”

“While his guards watched, yeah.”

Sherlock’s grin dropped, “His guards?”

“They sort of suggested it, at least one of them did. Apparently he’s pretty well disliked. Still, they have a job to do, so I doubt that we can look to them for help.” 

“No, likely not,” Sherlock chuckled. 

“Wouldn’t that… hurt?” Molly asked, looking uncomfortable.

“Satyr are designed to take larger phallus’ than humans usually possess,” Sherlock explained, ignoring John’s uncomfortable look, “Though, I do imagine it was less than enjoyable. How ever did you pull that off?”

“I just tried not to put too much pressure on his prostate,” John muttered, “How much larger, exactly?”

“Oh, you’ve seen mine, John,” Sherlock said with an offhand wave as he rubbed at his arms and hands. 

“Well, yeah, and you’ve seen mine,” John stammered.

Sherlock blinked: “Have I missed something?”

“A bit, yeah,” John blushed. 

“Is it one of those obvious things?” Sherlock asked, rolling his eyes. 

“No… yes… maybe… look, never mind, we’ll… work that out later.”

“Oh! It has to do with sex!” Sherlock cottoned on finally, “I think I’m close now. We were discussing you penetrating Moriarty with an inanimate object instead of your own genitalia, Molly asked about pain, I replied about size… You’re feeling inadequate?”

“I’ll just wait outside, shall I?” Molly squeaked. 

John stared at Sherlock, face fixed blank, because getting angry with him wouldn’t help in one of these situations. Sherlock didn’t understand why John was upset and yelling at him wouldn’t make him understand.

“Do I satisfy you in bed, Sherlock?” John asked, knowing he’d get an honest answer.

“Absolutely,” Sherlock replied as though the question were ridiculous, “Though it likely has a bit to do with my own inexperience.”

John sighed, “Are you bothered by my size?”

“What is that saying? Ah! Size isn’t everything, John.”

“So you’re fine with it?”

“Your penis?”

“Yes, that.”

“Completely.”

“Alright. Good. That’s… good,” John replied, feeling relieved. 

“What about you? Still nervous about mine?” Sherlock asked casually, apparently deciding to get it all out of the way. 

“A bit, but… a little excited, too.” 

Sherlock smirked and gave John a passionate kiss before heading back over to the body bag and pulling out the legs. It turned out they weren’t real legs at all and Sherlock twisted the feet off to dump out his disguise and various make-up essentials. 

“Can I use this area for a bit? I may need an hour. I didn’t want everything coming out of place in the bag.”

“No problem. I’ll tell them I’m sanitizing the area and to keep out,” John wrote up a sign in large marker and put it on the door. 

“Bit informal,” Sherlock frowned.

“If it’s not broke, don’t fix it,” John shrugged. 

A burly Man with muttonchops had replaced Sherlock forty minutes later: the real person of whom John had gassed and locked in the closet of his room earlier that morning. He tipped his cap to John and strode out of the surgery without another word. Molly wandered back in looking uncomfortable.

“I wasn’t listening… you know… in case you two were… doing things,” Molly stammered.

John laughed, “Thanks, Molly, but we didn’t exactly have the time. Sherlock was getting his disguise on. Shall we, then?” 

“Yeah, sure.”

Moriarty was wheeled in three hours later and the surgery began. 

[CHAPTER FIFTEEN](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/50309.html)


	15. vincentmeoblinn | Seduced By A Satyr Ch 15

<http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_mcds24f5vv1qdag2yo1_400.jpg>

“You’ll be happy to know, Mr. Moriarty, that Molly brought an extra supply of plasma with her, so we can get this all done in one go if you’d like. The pain will be extreme, but it will only be the one time as opposed to multiple surgeries. You’ll recover better this way, also.”

“How long before I can _use_ the feet?”

“That depends on you. Standard recovery from surgery is eight weeks, but a bone graph like this extends it to ten. After that it’s all about how long it takes you to learn how to walk. It’s a different motion in Human feet, but I have utmost confidence that you will be up and moving around before Christmas.”

Moriarty looked like it _was_ Christmas and eagerly agreed to have the entire surgery done at once. John and Molly shared an eager smile. The feet had been soaking in a solution they’d informed Moriarty’s surgeon was created through use of synthetically reproduced stem cells to aid in the attachment of the new limb. The man was astonished by the articles and medical journals they’d showered him with showing how utterly possible this impossible surgery was. Perhaps in a few years it would be probable, but for now it was utter bunk. However, employing the use of Moriarty’s surgeon garnered a level of trust that got the armed guards out of the room. 

Dr. Kavanaugh, Moriarty’s surgeon, was the one to administer the anesthesia while Molly and John scrubbed up and chatted about which to do first.

“The horns will be the most cumbersome since we’ll have to dig out the buttons without cracking the skull,” John mentioned.

“Oh, but the feet will bleed the most, we’ll be freshest if we start there.”

“I suppose, but if we need to we can always call it off for a day. I’d prefer to leave the feet for last since it’s the riskiest procedure.” 

This conversation was all rehearsed, of course, and meant to lull Dr. Kavanaugh into believing they knew far more about the process than he ever could while giving it a ‘usual day at the surgery’ sort of feel. John would be the one ‘attaching’ Moriarty’s new feet; a process that would leave him hunched over each limb with a large magnifying glass to connect each nerve and blood vessel. It would all be false, of course; what John would really be doing would be strapping the prosthetics to his ankles and then putting makeup on that resembled stitches and even the bruising that would occur in such a surgery. He would then lash the whole mess together once more with an air cast; Moriarty had already been informed he would have little to no feeling in the feet for the first few weeks while the nerve endings healed and adjusted, but phantom limb syndrome might hopefully take care of any doubt that might creep up once he woke. Once Moriarty went to stand for the first time it would all come tumbling off, revealing his useless stumps, surgically cauterized at the ends. 

It had been Sherlock’s idea to leave Moriarty alive, but John blamed the movie _Princess Bride_ for the method. Apparently he had a romantic side after all and John was to be his Wesley. Moriarty was going to be the evil Prince and Sherlock was borrowing from the “To The Pain” scene; John was only sorry they hadn’t found an excuse to remove his eyes, tongue, and hands, but Sherlock assured him the horns and tail would do the trick. In the end no one would accept Moriarty; Humans more often than not required a person be whole and complete in order to favor them with anything besides pity, while the Satyr community would see him for the fraud he was. 

The surgery began and John and Molly did most of the work while Dr. Kavanaugh held things, handed the instruments, and on one occasion ended up clamping a few vessels. It took ten grueling hours, with the horns and feet taking the longest amount of time, but eventually Moriarty was wheeled to his bedroom for recovery and John, Molly, and Dr. Kavanaugh collapsed in exhaustion with beepers by their heads in case the nurse left watching Moriarty needed them. 

XXXXXXXXXX

Sherlock walked along with his tail peeping out from behind the maid’s apron that covered his front end. He had never been so glad to trade in his spirit gum for a stronger adhesive since the fake breasts on his chest had been squeezed and fondled by passing Humans at least six times. The apron did a poor job of covering them, but he hadn’t dared to wear more since a Doe simply wouldn’t have bothered. He didn’t make as much fuss as one would have about being fondled, though, since the last thing he wanted was to cause a scene. He batted a few hands away and growled (with a higher pitch than was his own want) at one man who’d tried to reach beneath the apron slip; he’d have had a nasty surprise had he managed.

Now he slipped into John’s chambers with a large, wheeled, laundry basket being tugged in behind him. John was passed out on the bed, snoring and utterly spent. Sherlock clicked the lock on the door and silently (as his unshod hooves allowed) crept over to the wardrobe, which he angled the hamper towards before opening the doors and allowing a corpse to tumble down into it. The man he’d been impersonating earlier had apparently died in John’s wardrobe; a glance at him when he’d gone in to give him water and found him thus had told Sherlock that he’d had an undiagnosed heart condition. John hadn’t known the man was dead and Sherlock had no intention of letting him find out, he’d simply slipped him a note telling him to leave his door unlocked again after surgery. The poor man probably thought he’d be getting laid; at least that’s what his freshly scrubbed and half-dressed attire suggested to Sherlock. 

Sherlock righted the hamper and piled the bloodstained clothing from Moriarty’s surgery on top of the corpse. The man was starting to smell, but it was a laundry basket so little would be asked. Sherlock then packed in some more clothing on top and crept back out, silently re-engaging the lock on his way out so John could sleep in relative safety. He then headed to the surgery where he stuffed the fat man into the body bag Sherlock had arrived in and jammed him into the freezer. Then off to the laundry in the basement where he stuffed all the contaminated articles of clothing into washers, added far too much bleach, and set them running. 

Task accomplished, Sherlock skipped off to clean up find a disguise that would result in less _groping_ of his person. Once he had changed back into the first man’s disguise he went back to the security desk to flirt with the woman there. He disgusted her, but that gave him ample opportunity to peruse the layout of the building once more via the monitors she watched. Since she was so busy avoiding his gaze, she never even noticed when he switched out the loop on the surgery’s camera. 

Finally Sherlock headed towards his goal. John’s swallowed locator beacon, which he’d then activated and left in it’s prophylactic packaging in the back of a toilet for Sherlock to track him down, had done it’s trick and given Sherlock the time he needed to research the building Moriarty’s lair was in. He had three days to properly search the building, but he’d already figured out the location of the hidden area Moriarty was using. He had nearly failed; he had thought the place he wanted would be a hidden _room_ , not a hidden _floor_ , but through watching the camera in the elevator and riding it a few times himself he soon noticed a discrepancy in the timing somewhere around the fifth floor. That was when he had decided to check the stairs and found that there was a floor utterly unaccounted for in the layout, which the elevator automatically skipped over without even registering it on the dials. It simply told you the sixth floor was the fifth, and so on up to the final floor, but the building was twelve stories high – not eleven – according to the oldest blueprints that Sherlock had discovered when searching for more info on the man’s base of operations. 

Moriarty had been clever about it; none of the public records and blueprints showed the building had twelve stories- they all read eleven save for the old one Sherlock had found in the library- the elevator was well programmed, and none of his men were aware of the missing floor. The stairs, however, were a dead give away. It was so like a satyr in this day and age to neglect a staircase. Moriarty likely had a security code that allowed him to get to his hidden fifth floor via the elevator, and the stairwell door onto it was securely locked and even chained from the opposite side, but he had failed to change the numbering within the stairwell _itself_ ; likely he had never set foot in the stairwell, which was uncarpeted and filled with the same hard, slick tile as the rest of the building. 

Sherlock now removed a pair of metal cutters from his bulbous false belly, picked the lock on the stairwell doors, pushed them open as far as the chains allowed, and cut through the chains. They clattered to the floor with as little noise as he’d thought, showing the other side to be well carpeted. Sherlock slipped into another hall, nudging the chains aside to avoid getting them tangled round his hooves, and clicked on his torch. It looked like an office; much as the rest of the floors did, including the ones modified to be dorm-like rooms for the occupants. However, no one simply hid an office, so Sherlock was unperturbed about the setting. 

Sherlock slipped from room to room, finding mostly offices and computers; it looked more like a call center than the setting for a major crimes operation, but they were all covered in enough layers of dust to speak of years of neglect. This floor seemed untouched except for the much-hoovered hall. Finally the largest office yielded a prize in the form of a clean work area and a gigantic safe, large enough to be a refrigerator. 

Sherlock ignored the safe and tried the computer, taking some time to guess the pass codes. Moriarty’s obsession the last several years had been Sherlock, John, and Humanity itself; too obvious. His office showed pictures of roman soldiers and beautiful scenes of Dublin- Moriarty’s home- but those were both rather recognizable decoys. Finally Sherlock’s mind drew a clear image of a DVD cover. 

** The Storyteller **

Sherlock smiled as the computer came to life, plugged in a portable hard drive, and started the backup process. Then he stood and faced the safe. Pity he hadn’t thought to bring his usual safe-cracking tools, but really a safe wasn’t Moriarty’s style. He was even tempted to walk away from it, thinking it a decoy and trap in case anyone ever set foot in the room; because, really, who could resist a gigantic safe in the corner of the room with ‘break into me’ practically written on it?

Not Sherlock.

[ http://cheesewearingtheology.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/02/pb-as-you-wish.jpg ](http://cheesewearingtheology.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/02/pb-as-you-wish.jpg)   
I dedicate this chapter to my husband and Master, who understood that _The Princess Bride_ gave me an unrealistic view of how men should behave and decided to behave that way. After 7 years of marriage it is my honor to kneel before the man who saved my life and say “as you wish” as often as he would hear it.

[ http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I_keWS1i3RA ](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I_keWS1i3RA)   
An explanation of “to the pain” for those of you who have never had the privilege of seeing _The Princess Bride_ or reading the remarkable book of the same name. 

[CHAPTER SIXTEEN](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/50458.html)


	16. vincentmeoblinn | Seduced By A Satyr Ch 16

Sherlock’s ear was pressed against the metal of the safe, his cheek warming it as he turned the dial. It was just like Moriarty to have a hundred year old gigantic safe in his secret office where no one would get at it. It was just like him to load the thing full of explosives. It was just like him to know that whoever came in would take more time cracking the safe than they would raping the computer. It was just like him to know it was irresistible. 

Oh, he doubted it was a very _big_ bomb. Most likely it was just enough to turn the safe into nasty shrapnel and shred whoever opened it, after all he wouldn’t want the integrity of his building compromised before he could get out of it alive. Then again, perhaps Sherlock was still not quite thinking like him, because the monster was sharing an office with a _bomb_ so perhaps he had little regard for his own life. Then again perhaps there wasn’t a bomb in here at all. Perhaps this was where he kept all his files and was simply a closet Steampunker. 

The final click reached Sherlock’s ear and he froze. This was it. When he turned the bar the bomb would go off. He should rig something. He should rig a pulley system, collect his computer purge, and hide behind a wall somewhere to open the safe. That was intelligent, brilliant really, and he doubted Moriarty would realize anyone was patient enough to do that. Except that Sherlock wasn’t.

Sherlock pulled his cheek away from the warmed metal and it suddenly felt cold. It made him miss John. It made him long for a warm body in his bed that he could press up against when the nights grew chilly. Someone who inspired him and gave him a reason to get up out of bed during those horrid days when everything seemed bleak, dull, pointless, and utterly lonely. 

Sherlock released the lever, pulling his hands away slowly as if they might have been contaminated. John would be alone if he did this. He could still rig the pulley, though… unless the bomb was truly huge. Or there might be a simple alarm system in here that went straight to Moriarty’s bedroom or mobile. Or files. Or evidence. Or… or… or…

Sherlock hadn’t even realized that he’d taken hold of the pulley again, but now that he felt it’s cool metal beneath his fingers, new resolve grew in him. He _would_ open this safe. His could not leave without knowing. It would haunt him for the rest of his life. Sherlock braced himself for the obviously old lock to fight him, but before he could apply pressure a hand slammed down onto the safe beside him and breath stirred his hair. Sherlock froze in horror. He knew that hand; he would recognize it anywhere, in any state larger than a single fingernail clipping. 

“John,” Sherlock whispered. 

“What’s wrong, Sherlock?” John’s voice sounded enraged, though it was no louder than a whisper.

“Nothing… I…”

“You’re risking your life again.”

“I…”

“You’re risking your life again _without me_.”

“Well, I…”

“If you’d like to leave me, Sherlock, at least have the courtesy to kill me _first_ so I don’t have to pick your body out of the wreckage of a bomb before I do myself in. Or are you seriously going to try to convince me that there isn’t a bomb on the inside of this incredibly conspicuous safe?”

Sherlock shivered, though whether from the idea of John killed, or the feel of his breath stirring his hair, he wasn’t sure. 

“John,” Sherlock whispered, unaccountably aroused by the deep tone of his usually passive lover’s voice.

“Sherlock,” John whispered back, and there was lust in his voice now as the man ran his tongue over Sherlock’s long, sensitive ear, “I want the rest of this ridiculous costume off of you. Then I want you to fuck me up against this safe.”

Sherlock’s head spun, and so did the dial in front of him as he re-engaged the lock… for John’s safety, not his own. Then he had John pinned to the safe with one hand while he ran a makeup removing cloth over his face. John grabbed another from his pocket and helped him, and the disguise fell to the floor in pieces as they stripped each other hungrily. The last to go were the ridiculous appendages Sherlock wore on his feet to make him look human. Then he lifted one of John’s legs up, utilizing his good arm, held out a hand for the lubricant that his brilliant lover had brought with, and slid a slick finger inside of him. John moaned and his head fell back against the safe with a bang. Sherlock’s breath caught in his throat, but he realized in the next instant that John had done it on purpose. He was egging on Sherlock’s devil-may-care attitude to drive him to greater heights of desire – and get it out of his system so he wouldn’t come back to this damned safe later.

“Oh, my John,” Sherlock breathed, and leaned forward to kiss and nip his throat.

“Sherlock!” John gasped, writhing on his fingers. 

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

John had been dreaming. He’d been dreaming of himself and Sherlock making love, but in his dream they were both Satyr living in the woods the way Satyr were _supposed to_ and John took Sherlock’s massive cock deep inside of him with a heated cry of bliss. Over and again Sherlock buried himself inside of John until he lost all control and came untouched across a patch of clover. Sherlock moaned in bliss and John felt himself flooded with heat…

John gasped awake, achingly hard, just in time to see the door slip shut on a bare Satyr bottom, sexy tail flicking about. A maid’s apron had graced that figure, but he’d know that arse anywhere. John’s cock gave an approving twitch and John dragged himself up and started throwing on clothes. Once dressed he hurried outside after Sherlock but saw him nowhere. John was confused. He’d been under the impression his impatient lover had wanted a rendezvous with him, but instead of showing up and having his wicked way with him he’d… cleaned his room?

Perhaps it was a game. Sherlock did so love games. He’d been in a maid’s outfit, so John should use that clue to hunt him down. John headed off to search for his wayward lover. A trip to the many places a maid would frequent revealed nothing so John headed back in disappointment, but on his way Sherlock came around the corner, fake breasts dangling suggestively. John ducked down a hallway so he wouldn’t be seen and dodged into the room Sherlock was most likely headed towards – the laundry. Once there he dove into a pile of (thankfully clean) clothes and buried himself in them. He had just managed to clear a spot for his eye and grow still when Sherlock came in. Out of the basket came soiled linens and Sherlock dumped them into a large washer and added an entire _bottle_ of bleach. There was no way that Sherlock didn’t know that was too much, even if the foppish bastard had never done a single load of laundry in his life. That’s when he realized what was happening. Sherlock was cleaning up after him – hiding the evidence of what he’d done to Moriarty. John’s heart ached with love for this beautiful Satyr and he wanted to jump out and take him right there, but then Sherlock started stripping his disguise off. 

Well… Sherlock with breasts had been nice and all, but his real love…

John watched with renewed arousal as the disguise came off and was tossed into the hamper as well, damned forever with the other odds and ends going through the machine. He then tugged his other costume out of a hiding place and John realized Sherlock was going clue hunting. Well, Sherlock certainly made it a game of following _John_ everywhere in secret; John could do the same to _him_. Sherlock thought he wasn’t clever enough, but it wasn’t about clever it was about fast and silent and the military had taught him to be both. 

Sherlock’s first destination was boring enough; he flirted with the current security guard and switched out the tapes. Next, however, he took the stairwell, and John both despaired for his safety as well as worried he wouldn’t be able to follow secretly enough. He was wrong on both counts. Sherlock’s clunky ‘shoes’, designed to hide his hooves, worked perfectly well for traction, but made so much noise John could have walked directly behind him and not been heard. John slipped in behind him before the door shut and followed Sherlock up to the fifth floor with ease. 

John watched as Sherlock broke into the (locked?) fifth floor and caught the door before it closed. He peered through the crack as Sherlock ducked from room to room – really only glancing in them – before going fully into a room at the end. 

John followed Sherlock when he didn’t emerge for several minutes and found him setting up a hard drive on a computer. He’d left the door open so John pressed his back against the wall and listened. Sherlock moved about after a while, but then there was silence; too much silence. Sherlock was too hyper to remain still for that long without descending into depression or plotting something. John leaned to the side – expecting he had been caught and Sherlock would be sneering at him – but Sherlock’s attention was riveted on the giant safe that took up a large portion of the room.

It was the sort that belonged in a bank with walls around it – a vault, really, though it was smaller than modern ones and the design reminded him of historic movies. John watched Sherlock walk all around it, examining it from every angle. This wasn’t odd for the detective, but when he leaned forward and sniffed along the cracks John felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. Something dangerous was in that safe. He knew it. A moment of thought and he was certain it was a bomb. Moriarty loved bombs. 

John stepped into the room to halt Sherlock, but he was already turning the dial, his wig abandoned in order to press his ear against the safe door. John froze. He didn’t want to set off the bomb by having Sherlock do something wrong if he startled him when he went to stop him. He’d have to wait and hope merely turning the dial correctly didn’t activate the bomb. At least they would die together. It took Sherlock half an hour to crack the safe, and he muttered and growled whenever he turned the dial incorrectly, but still he took his time and slowly turned the dial again and again. Finally they both heard the click that meant it was unlocked. John held his breath, but nothing happened. Sherlock seemed frozen in place. He saw the Buck lean back, considering the task at hand. 

John took two steps forward as Sherlock grasped the handle, then released it and muttered to himself. He muttered about a pulley, Moriarty, he said John’s name several times and seemed to be talking directly to him, but not loudly enough that John could understand him. 

_ This is what it sounds like when he talks to me when I’m not around _ . John realized. 

Then Sherlock grasped the handle again and John recognized the resolve and slammed his hand down on the door. He was angry. Sherlock was frozen. 

“John,” Sherlock whispered.

John was so angry he was shaking, and more than that he was hurt, because Sherlock had just decided to off himself _despite thinking of John_. How could he ever trust this mad genius again? He couldn’t. The answer was simple. Kill them both or find a way to distract Sherlock enough that he wouldn’t do something like this again… and be there the next time he did. 

John spoke, but the words came automatically, and he didn’t even realize what he was asking for until Sherlock had re-engaged the lock and pinned him against the wall. Then he was watching as Sherlock peeled off the disguise, helping even, and they were both panting with desire. John had brought lube with, of course, because it was his intention to confront his fear of bottoming for Sherlock on the absolute next opportunity, and it was with a surge of pride that he dripped the slick substance onto Sherlock’s long fingers. 

Sherlock lifted one of John’s legs up, pinning it to the safe, and slid it inside of him with only a bit of rubbing first. It didn’t even burn, John had done this to himself too many times for that, and his head fell back in bliss. He grinned as Sherlock gasped at his careless behavior. 

_ See what it’s like to fear for someone’s life? You haven’t just got your own to worry about anymore. _

“Oh, my John,” Sherlock breathed, and leaned forward to kiss and nip his throat.

“Sherlock!” John gasped, and writhed as Sherlock added a second, twisting, scissoring, and bending them until John was gasping in pleasure.

“Have you ever done this to yourself, John?” Sherlock asked and John nodded mutely, “You used my hairbrush during my first Rut, did you come with it inside you?”

“Y-yes!”

“Did you like it?”

“Yes! Oh, fuck, Sherlock! Now! In me, now!”

“Mmmmm, I am in you,” Sherlock added a third finger to prove his point and John nearly came, but he managed to grip his cock and hold himself off. 

“S-so close! Sherlock!” 

“You’re beautiful like this,” Sherlock whispered, then pulled his fingers free and pressed himself against John. 

John had a moment of panic in which he was certain that Sherlock was too big for him, but he reminded himself he’d been experimenting with dildos at one point and he’d had something this big inside of him. He could fit Sherlock as well. Soon enough Sherlock popped past the first ring of muscle and John groaned in relief at the full feeling that flooded his body. A few seconds of stillness to adjust, and then Sherlock was pressing himself in and in and in…

John gasped. He hadn’t accounted for the _length_ of him, and wondered if he could take him all when he felt Sherlock still and his balls, which were pressed against one of John’s thighs, began to draw up as the man panted against his neck. 

“John…” Sherlock breathed, his voice tense with arousal.

“Oh, Zeus, you’re so _big_.”

“Stop?” Sherlock questioned.

“Mnnnn, fuck me!” John snarled, and gave him a nip on his neck to show how he wanted it. 

Sherlock’s hips snapped back and forth as he fucked him fast and hard against the bomb-rigged safe. John moaned and clutched at Sherlock, mindful of his injured shoulder, and kissed anyplace he could reach. Sherlock shifted his angle and John was seeing stars as his prostate was liberally stimulated. Sherlock scratched at him with his fingernails and John snarled and returned the favor, his combing through the hair on the bottom half of his arse before scratching at the skin above it. He was certain he’d drawn blood but Sherlock merely swore and fucked him harder. John’s back was slamming against the safe over and again, but he’d long since decided this was the perfect way to die so he demanded more. Sherlock snarled and bit his neck hard.

“You’re _mine_ , John. My Buck!”

“Yes! Yours! Oh, fuck, ohfuckohfuckohfuck!!”

He was keening in pleasure on the top of his lungs, unable to stop himself, and when he finally came it was so unexpected that his head flew back and hit the safe again while he screamed out his pleasure. His clenching muscles must have brought Sherlock over the edge because the man stilled, gasping in shock and pleasure, and John felt himself flooded with heat. 

“Oh, Sher!” John moaned, his cock giving a desperate twitch as Sherlock thrust again and stimulated his now sensitive prostate. 

“Oh, Zeus, John… don’t make me stop… I can’t!” 

John bit hard into Sherlock’s good shoulder as the man pounded into him one more, chasing a second orgasm with even more desperation than the first. John listened in amazement as he babbled and moaned wildly. John’s eyes were watering from the sensations flooding his body, but Sherlock had at least shifted off of his prostate. Not that the man was cognizant of having done so; John didn’t think Sherlock was aware of anything but his own intense pleasure.

“Ohhh! Ohhh! Fuck! Yes! Ahhhhhhhhhhhh! John! Mmmmnnnnn, ahhhhhhhhhh!”

Then Sherlock flooded him again and John gasped as hot liquid dripped down his leg, his body unable to contain all the hot seed inside of him. Sherlock thrust through his second release, head thrown back and bellowing out his pleasure. When he finally stilled they both gasped for a moment and then went limp, toppling to the floor in a mass of lethargic limbs. Sherlock lay on his back on the floor, panting and exhausted, even his ears limp. John lay on his side, one leg thrown over Sherlock’s body. He couldn’t move it – the damn thing had gone to sleep while they’d been fucking and he couldn’t even feel it anymore. 

The computer beeped and Sherlock chuckled. 

“Backup’s done.” 

“Me, too,” John replied, “Think anyone will notice if we sleep here?”

“I think if anyone was going to notice anything about us in this place, it would have already happened.”

“Touché.” 

“Mmmmmm, maybe later.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and John chuckled as the Satyr drifted off to sleep right there. John levered himself to his feet, dripping obscenely onto the floor, and decided he was going to be absolutely foul. He sat down in Moriarty’s fancy leather chair and let himself leak, trying not to chuckle too loud and wake up his sleeping lover. He wasn’t fool enough to touch the gizmo Sherlock had set up, or muck about with any possibly booby-trapped objects around the desk, but he did prop his feet up on the desk and drop off to sleep with ease. He’d feel disgusting when he woke, but it would be worth it to know he’d left a pile of dried spunk on Moriarty’s chair. 

[CHAPTER SEVENTEEN](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/50852.html)


	17. vincentmeoblinn | Seduced By A Satyr Ch 17

 

 

_It was one of those dreams where you knew you were dreaming and had the feeling that if you wanted to wake up you could simply will yourself to do so. John was walking down a long hallway, his fingertips grazing the textured paneling. There were doors everywhere around them, but he knew they contained nightmares, so he continued straight ahead. Finally his fingertips brushed a door that lead someplace wonderful so John turned the knob and pushed it open. He was blinded by sunlight for a moment, but when he had blinked it away he saw a nursery painted the palest yellow and green, it’s windows were flooded with light that made sunspots dance through a glass wind chime which gave off soft, soothing tones. The next sound he heard was the creaking of wood against wood, and he stepped fully into the room and looked to his right to see Sherlock in a rocking chair. He was pushing it back and forth with one foot, with the other ankle resting against his thigh. Across his lap was draped a yearling Faun, his face slack in sleep, and his blonde hair stirring in the breeze. The tiny creature looked more doll than Kidd with his perfect spotted, shorthaired legs and the dusting of freckles across his nose._

_John stepped gently into the room; cautious lest he wake the sleeping babe, and Sherlock’s eyes raised to meet his with the most loving smile John had ever seen. He beckoned John closer and reached out a hand for his. Once their fingers touched Sherlock brought his hand down to rest on the Kidd’s soft buds. John touched the hard velvety appendages in wonder, then ran his fingers through the surrounding hair before running a single finger down his cheek and letting the back of his hand linger an inch from the mouth to feel that warm breath._

_“Our son,” John breathed, his eyes moist._

_“Ours? Don’t be ridiculous. Don’t your recognize the pattern? This is your and Moriarty’s son.”_

_John glanced down in horror, and the child was indeed marked just like Moriarty._

_“No… No, I never… I wouldn’t. Sherlock, you have to believe me!”_

_John’s raised his eyes to meet Sherlock’s and saw blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. He smiled up at John, his teeth stained red, and spoke so softly John had to strain to hear him._

_“Don’t worry, John. I forgive you for sleeping.”_

_“I didn’t sleep with him, Sherlock, I swear to you I didn’t!”_

_“I didn’t say that, John. You always listen, but never hear. I said, ‘I forgive you for sleeping’.”_

_John felt his heart clench. Sherlock. The safe. The safe with the_ bomb _in it!_

_Wake up! Wake up_ now _! Sherlock! Don’t do it! Don’t touch the safe!_

John woke with a strangled cry, which turned into a scream of pain as he jolted to his feet and his arse attempted to stay behind in the chair. Sherlock awoke with a snort and looked up at John, who was leaning against the desk wiping tears of agony from his face.

“Oh my fucking _Zeus_!” John choked out, afraid to look at the chair lest he find blood along with all the dried semen.

Sherlock was laughing hysterically on the floor: “Well, if I ever want my arse waxed, now I know what to do!”

“Oh, very funny, you twit!”

“You’re the berk who slept in a pile of ejaculate. Why didn’t you _move_ after leaving Moriarty that present? -Which is utterly disgusting, by the way.”

“You like it,” John smirked.

Sherlock didn’t deny it, but it might have been because he was laughing too hard. He sobered when John nodded to the computer before starting to gather their clothes. Sherlock packed up his equipment and glanced over at the clock.

“Do you think anyone’s gone looking for you?” Sherlock asked in concern.

“Shit, we didn’t think of that.”

“We were a bit single minded, yes.”

“Nothing for it,” John said with a sigh, “Can’t leave Molly hanging. I can always pretend I walked off to have a fag and got locked out on a balcony or something. There’s security locks for everything.”

“Not a bad idea, actually, except that you don’t smoke.”

John shrugged and Sherlock put his costume back on, promising to find out what was going on and text John. John waited a full 40 minutes before receiving a text.

**They’re looking for you, but they aren’t suspicious. They think you’re sleeping with the maid - SH**

**Which maid? - JW**

**The hot Doe maid with the big tits - SH**

**You? – JW**

**What other hot Doe maids with big tits are you staring at? Should I be jealous? – SH**

**Depends on if you’ll be wearing that at home again ;D – JW**

**Pervert – SH**

**I’m banging a master of disguise; there have to be some perks to it. – JW**

**I’ll think about it – SH**

**XD – JW**

**Juvinile – SH**

**:P – JW**

**That’s what I look like when I eat out your arsehole – JW**

**I prefer not knowing, thank you, there are reasons our eyes are so far from that section of our bodies. – SH**

**:O – JW**

**That’s what I look like when I suck your cock – JW**

**Don’t you have some appearing to do? – SH**

**Can’t. Hard now. – JW**

**Now, John. – SH**

**Fine – JW**

John made his way down to the basement level via the stairs, then made his way back up via more populated corridors and the main elevators. He made no attempts to disguise the fact he’d been shagging someone as he stepped out onto the floor his rooms were located on. He’d passed several people on his way up and had a well-established alibi going if all the snickers he received were anything to go by. There was a guard outside his doorway, but he didn’t recall if he was one of the ones who had witnessed him ‘fucking’ Moriarty; the bloke gave him an approving look either way.

“Something wrong?” John asked, “Why are you guarding my door?”

“They went to page you and you didn’t answer-” The guard started to explain.

“Fuck!”

“-So I was waiting here until you showed. The boss wants to see you.”

“Right, shit, is it medical?” John asked, but the man shrugged, “It’s just… I kinda need a shower at the moment.”

The guard snorted, “He’s been demanding you for two hours, what’s another five minutes?”

“Thanks!” John gave him a relieved look and fled inside to wash his sore arse and throw on clean clothes.

When he reached Moriarty’s rooms the man was practically bouncing with rage. He screamed threats at John for several minutes, and John cowered in all honesty because even injured he still had the power to take him apart- for now. Then- in that terrifying way he had- he suddenly calmed down, smiled, and asked John to sit on the bed and keep him company.

“Molly was just here,” Moriarty purred, petting John’s hair when John lay down beside him as indicated.

“Oh? Did she give you more morphine?”

“Yes. Dear, sweet Molly.”

“She is an angel of mercy,” John agreed, hoping she was still alive.

“She had a crush on Sherlock, too. Did you know that?”

“He was rather well sought after for a sociopath,” John remarked, keeping his tone thoughtful.

“My thoughts exactly, we do so think alike, you and I.”

“It’s rather odd, isn’t it? I wonder what would have happened if I’d met you first?” John decided to lead the conversation down a wistful path, hoping to keep him sweet.

“My now, there’s an idea. Do you think we’d have shagged? No… that’s not like you. Not while Moran was still around. Dear Sebastian… I do miss him, but you are quite the lovely prize, if only because of who you once belonged to.”

_I’m a conquest? Great._ “Perhaps I’d have killed him to get to you,” John suggested with a laugh to show he was joking, but then winced when he realized Moriarty might take that seriously anyway. This was still his former lover they were talking about.

“Ahhhh, so you would have conquered me?”

John had a moment of fear in which he wondered if he’d said something out loud he hadn’t meant to, but Moriarty’s hand hadn’t faltered in his constant petting.

“I think we both know who does the conquering around here,” John chuckled.

 “Do we? Because I was under the distinct impression that you were fucking _me_ not some Nanny maid.”

Moriarty’s voice had gone deathly cold and his petting had turned to a painful grip.

“She was just a quick fuck…” John stammered, knowing denying it was pointless.

“You were seen following her around the hall like a lovesick puppy!” Moriarty snarled.

“She had nice tits! I knew she’d put out because she was a Nanny!” John spat out the racial slur with honest disgust, “You’re laid up and will be for a while. I was just… staking a claim before someone else did!”

Moriarty stilled and slowly released John’s hair one finger at a time. John didn’t dare move, he just lay there, panting pitifully.

“Suck me off. Now. Show me you love me and I’ll forgive you,” Moriarty tossed his blankets aside and John scrambled to obey.

It sounded perfectly logical until he was faced with that flaccid member and realized he was going to have to get him aroused, manage not to puke in his lap while felating him, and then deal with him orgasming in his mouth and all the possible diseases that could bring about. For once John thought fast, and gave a cry of alarm, tugging the sheets the rest of the way down to look in concern at Moriarty’s legs.

“What? What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Fuck! I’ve got to get Molly in here!” John bolted and Moriarty shouted after him, demanding to know what was wrong. John bolted into the hall, saw a couple of guards, and shouted at them to help him find Molly fast.

“The boss has got a blood clot. We need to act fast before it travels to his brain and kills him!” John explained loudly.

The shouting behind him stopped and both guards scrambled to find Molly.

“Wait! We need to organize this!” John shouted, “You check her room, you check the lab, and I’ll check the surgery.”

Nods all around and the men scattered. John pulled out his cell and texted both Molly and Sherlock.

**Moving the plan up. We need to get out. Now. – JW**

**What’s wrong? – MH**

**Didn’t take it well? – SH**

**I’m not getting raped again – JW**

**What do you mean AGAIN?! – SH**

**Are you alright, John? – MH**

**Out! Now! – JW**

John bolted for the surgery where they had agreed their rendezvous would be and Molly was there ahead of him. Sherlock followed shortly after, looking winded and still in his costume.

“Loose the boots, you won’t be able to run like that if we need to. You always say people don’t look down, anyway,” John panted, still out of breath.

Sherlock nodded and John helped him out of them while Molly gathered what they needed. A few minutes later and she was handing out corked test tubes to them each. Inside was a liquid that would turn into a gas once exposed to oxygen.

“We get three each and Sherlock get’s four. Sorry!”

“No, keep them all for yourself,” Sherlock replied, “You’ll be our cover fire. John and I will be doing the heavy lifting.”

Molly nodded and pocketed them all nervously, spacing them out in her lab coat, breast pocket, and pants pockets to lessen the chance of them breaking and showering her in a potentially lethal dose of knockout gas. They all three donned masks and headed up to Moriarty’s room with a stretcher and several medical supplies in tow.

“What’s wrong with my legs?!” Moriarty screamed at them as they headed in, then did a double take when he saw the large guard with them.

“Sherlock?” He asked in confusion, seeing through the disguise instantly, then he grinned from ear to ear, “Oh, well, isn’t this going to be fun!”

John clapped a rag over his face and the man went limp. They quickly transferred him onto the stretcher, removing his tubes and placing false ones in the way. Then John and Sherlock wheeled him out with Molly following, shouting out medical terms and sounding as though they were prepping for surgery again. They made it to the elevators and down to the first floor before someone tried to stop them instead of just hurrying out of their way. The guard at the front door, a male this time, who was monitoring the cameras jumped up, gun drawn, and shouted at them to stop.

Molly tossed a vial at him and he dodged instinctively, but it exploded violently and he was soon having a seizure on the floor as the fentanyl* gas erupted around him. Two men who had rushed in to see what he had shouted about were caught in the same gust. They fled out the door – Molly chucked another vial at it to slow them down - and quickly shot to the side way that led to the parking garage beneath the building. There Molly’s stolen ambulance remained and they quickly stuffed Moriarty into it. Molly tossed another two vials out, one to the left and one to the right, as they heard the sound of feet approaching. The gas provided visual cover as well as knocking out anyone who breathed it in. They shut the doors and Molly climbed up front, shifting it in gear and flying out at top speed. She threw on the sirens and they watched traffic part for them; the many vehicles trying to get back on the road in their wake would cut anyone who followed off.

Just to be certain they’d lost them they traveled for several miles, zigzagging here and there, before Molly turned off the siren and headed out of London entirely. Molly stored the remaining vials of gas so they wouldn’t be accidentally set off and Sherlock took a turn at the wheel while she helped John with Moriarty. They stopped once to refuel, at which point Sherlock demanded to know what he’d meant about being raped _again_ , and kept driving.

“You can’t do anything about it, Sherlock. The man’s already released from prison by now, I don’t even know his real name,” John explained for the third time.

“I’m Sherlock _Fucking_ Holmes, I can find someone going by the alias ‘Fat Tony’ in a place as small as London!”

“What are you going to do when you find him, eh?”

“Well this worked rather well, perhaps…”

“We are not going ‘to the pain’ on some bloke just for fucking my face!”

“Your under-exaggerated sense of self worth is only attractive when it’s directed towards me!” Sherlock ranted from the driver’s seat.

“Should he be driving this wound up?” Molly wondered, but they ignored her.

“I just don’t see the point,” John argued uselessly.

“Obviously it still bothers you, or you wouldn’t have brought it up!”

“Obviously I just don’t want it to happen again! Moriarty was going to make me… I just wanted out, alright!”

Sherlock dropped silent and Molly fiddled with their supplies as though they held the answer to all the world’s problems.

“John, come up here,” Sherlock demanded.

“No.”

“John, I want to talk to you more privately.”

“ _No_.”

“Please.”

John climbed into the front and shut the hatch behind him, leaving Molly with a seriously deadly man. Probably not the smartest thing he’d ever done, but he could count on one hand the amount of times Sherlock had said please without it being part of a sarcastic remark.

“Once this is over I promise you I will never allow you to be placed in such a position again,” Sherlock stated with absolute solemnity.

John was silent a moment, trying to figure out how that made him feel; loved, protected, mollycoddled, and insulted were the first things that came to mind. John took a deep breath and determined he would _not_ respond without thinking first. Sherlock wouldn’t understand if he snapped at him right now.

“I appreciate what you’re saying and trying to do, Sherlock, I really do, but I don’t need protecting or coddling. I need a normal life again – well normal for us. I want to go back to solving cases and driving each other up a wall. Maybe have a Kidd together. That’s what I want. I want to forget I ever spent time in prison or was ostracized by society or spent countless nights wondering if I’d made love to you, or raped you, or been raped by you. I want to delete these whole fucking last few years except for the few hours I spent in your arms. That’s what I want, Sherlock.”

It was Sherlock’s turn to think on that for a bit and John gave it to him, after all he was used to Sherlock going for days without speaking to him while he sat and thought endlessly on some problem. He just might take that long this time, so when he didn’t reply after several minutes John slipped back into the passenger area with Molly and breathed a sigh of relief that she was fine.

Moriarty was conscious but restrained, so John consulted Sherlock as to whether or not they should drug him again. Sherlock had apparently gone deep into his Mind Palace and was completely unresponsive. John watched him drive for a bit to make sure he was still capable of that, determined he was, and told Molly to knock him out again. If it wasn’t the right call Sherlock could yell at him later.

Finally they reached Eastbourne and the quiet little boat that would whisk Moriarty away from them forever. The four of them boarded, Sherlock throwing himself down on the deck to stare up at the stars with his hands pressed together beneath his chin. The captain of the vessel, along with his two crewmembers, were apparently paid well enough to not even stare and stepped over Sherlock when they needed to get to some rigging beside him. John and Molly hauled Moriarty into the cabin and set up a fresh IV of antibiotics and saline. John checked his stumps, removing the false appendages and applying fresh antiseptic and gauze as needed.

“We haven’t any morphine with us, have we?” John asked Molly.

“A few needles, but not much.”

“We’d better save them for when we need them. How are we on sedatives?”

“Good. He’ll sleep for days.”

“Prioritized, did we?” John smirked at her and she grinned back shyly.

The captain knocked at the door and John answered it nervously, glancing out to see if Sherlock was still all right.

“We’ll be in the Mediterranean in three days,” The captain stated firmly, “but we’re going to have to stop for supplies first port. We weren’t expecting you right away.”

“You were told to wait at the ready at any time.”

“We were waiting, but it takes time to get loaded up and we’re only halfway there. Don’t worry, we’ll get you there and no one will be the wiser.”

John nodded his understanding and the captain departed in silence, stepping over Sherlock on his way. John snatched up a blanket and draped it over the naked Satyr; he’d ditched his costume in the ambulance and abandoned it in a dumpster near the petrol station they’d stopped at.

“If it helps any, I’ve been tested and I’m clean,” John informed him as he sat down beside him on the deck.

“Mmmm,” Sherlock replied, still staring up at the stars.

“Are you excited to see Greece? Have you ever been there?” John asked.

“Are you going to keep talking?” Sherlock wondered back.

“No, apparently not,” John sighed, then pressed a kiss to his lover’s forehead and stood, “If you need me I’ll be taking shift’s with Molly. Can’t have Moriarty escaping or dying, that would spoil all our fun.”

*A gas apparently based on a derivative of fentanyl was used in 2002 as the [Moscow hostage crisis chemical agent](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Moscow_hostage_crisis_chemical_agent) to incapacitate Chechen terrorist attackers (and, unavoidably, their hostages) too quickly for them to retaliate. More than 15% of those affected died.[[54]](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fentanyl#cite_note-54)

[CHAPTER EIGHTEEN](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/50979.html)


	18. vincentmeoblinn | Seduced By A Satyr Ch 18

John was anxious about the stopping thing, but it also afforded him a chance to get some much needed medical supplies – albeit illegally. It was interesting how he was practically marked as a Satyr now. Sherlock simply rubbed up on him before he left the ship so he smelled of Satyr and then he spoke Greek and acted as he’d been taught and after a few seconds of nerves he was welcome virtually anywhere other Satyr were. He walked away with a veritable fortune in pharmaceuticals, all paid for by Mycroft and a magic little card Sherlock gave him that virtually emptied out an ATM. 

When he got back Sherlock sniffed at him and nuzzled his cheek: “Quit bathing so much. I like you smelling like me. It isn’t necessary, you know, bathing daily.”

John thought it best not to argue. Sherlock was still in an odd mood from John’s announcement. Frankly, John had thought Sherlock knew- the way he simply always knew- but apparently he’d been in the dark and was now rewriting whatever data bank files he kept on John in his Mind Palace. John was worried about what would come of it. Would Sherlock think less of him? His actions so far had been almost cautiously affectionate; as though he were worried if he changed his behavior John would lash out. Well, he would, but that was beside the point. However, things seemed to suddenly jolt back to normal as they got out to sea again that day.

“Fuck me. Right here and now,” Sherlock whispered in John’s ear, and the voice went straight to his cock.

“S-sorry what?”

They were sitting on the deck relaxing together and staring out at the cloudy sky; it looked like it might rain. Sherlock was naked as the day he was born and John was only in trousers. While he’d certainly gotten used to nudity while living in the Satyr community, the idea of having public sex wasn’t something he’d ever entertained. It wasn’t a Satyr custom that he knew of.

“I want to see if they’ll keep ignoring me,” Sherlock snickered.

John, Sherlock, Molly, and Moriarty’s presence still went almost completely ignored on the ship full of what John was now convinced were smugglers of some kind. They were very careful not to notice that they were there unless they were bringing them news of weather or announcing that their food was ready in the galley since they ate separately from the crew. 

“They aren’t just ignoring _you_. I think Mycroft’s told them not to notice us or something.”

“Yes, and I want to see how good at it they are,” Sherlock whispered, giving the shell of John’s ear a lick, “Like if they’d be able to keep it up while you’re fucking my arse and I’m screaming your name, or afterwards when they have to mop my cum off the deck.”

John shivered in excitement, and found the idea of being watched was a bit more erotic than he’d originally thought. It didn’t sway his decision, though, and he pushed Sherlock’s groping hands away with a chuckle.

“Quit molesting me. I’m not going to have sex with you in front of the entire crew.”

“Why not?” Sherlock pouted.

“Because it’s degrading and I’m better than that,” John laughed, pushing his hands away again and standing, despite the aching hard-on that insisted he quit being a prude.

“Let’s show them just how _good_ you are,” Sherlock flirted shamelessly, stretching out on the deck and running his hands over himself. 

Sherlock was getting tan from all his sunbathing, despite the lotion John lathered on him, and it looked oddly good on him. John stared hungrily, then shook his head and hurried away before he did something shameful. Once inside he checked Moriarty’s fluids and verified with Molly that he’d had the proper nutrients that day. They had a chart going for him, making sure he was getting enough antibiotics, saline, and nutrients since he was unconscious at all times. A clap of thunder interrupted their discussion and Molly jumped and squeaked. John hid his smirk behind a fake yawn.

“Think Sherlock will come in yet?” John laughed as the sky suddenly dropped buckets of rain down on them all at once.

“He has become rather fond of the deck, hasn’t he?” Molly laughed.

John headed out to chase his lover inside. The bastard still had stitches, for pities sake. When he got outside Sherlock was clinging to the side of a rail and staring out into the water. John shouted, but the wind was horrific, there was no way he heard him. The boat lurched and John clung to the edge, then started across to Sherlock. There was no way he’d be able to walk anywhere with those hooves on a wet and shifting deck. He’d have to help him inside. 

When John got to the rail he realized Sherlock wasn’t the only one looking out, the crew were all scrambling to get the ship under control and they kept casting fearful glances out to sea. John looked as well and saw several odd dark circles in the water. Sherlock was staring at them in open amazement. 

“What are those?” John asked, but Sherlock continued to stare out to sea, “Is something in the water? Are we going to hit it?”

As John spoke he realized he was wrong. Something wasn’t surfacing; it was the surface of the water behaving oddly. As he watched clouds formed over several of the dark circles and began to swirl. The water danced oddly for a several minutes and then John saw movement in the clouds above. That’s when he realized what he was seeing, and what was about to happen in two separate locations off the port bow.

“ _Tornadoes_? Are those tornadoes?” John shouted.

“No! Waterspouts! They rarely move fast or far and the winds aren’t as strong. As long as we avoid them we’ll be safe!”

John stood frozen in amazement as the clouds met the sea and the water became far choppier. The boat seemed to want to turn on it’s own, but the crew was fighting it. Lightning flashed on the horizon and it jolted John into action.

“Inside! You’re still healing!” John tried to tug Sherlock’s arm over his shoulder so he could help him in, but he jerked away from him, sliding on the deck precariously, but clinging stubbornly to the rail nonetheless.

“I’m not missing this! It’s rare in these waters!”

“No way Sherlock! Inside! Now!”

They struggled a moment and then Sherlock shoved him, his face angry, and John nearly fell. He looked sorry an instant later, but John wasn’t playing about. He grabbed Sherlock and pried his hand from the rail, intending on carrying him if he had to, but the boat gave a jolt at that instant and they were both thrown to the ground. Sherlock managed to catch the rail again, but John and several crewmembers slid to the other side of the ship. 

The waterspout _had_ moved, and far faster than it was supposed to according to Sherlock. John was clutching the opposite railing and watching Sherlock struggle to find footing on the other side of the boat. The whole craft was spinning like a very slow top, but it was more alarming than dizzying. Sherlock hauled himself to his feet and to John’s horror he reached out a hand towards the waterspout. John shouted, but the wind swallowed his words. He could just picture his lover’s face, eyes wide despite the water flailing about, entranced by the danger in front of him. 

John pushed himself off of his rail and tried to army crawl to Sherlock, but the boat lurched at that moment, switching its slant towards Sherlock’s side and the Faun toppled over the edge. John thought he might have screamed, but the heavens were doing that too, so he wasn’t entirely sure. John made it to the edge, but couldn’t see Sherlock through the spinning water. The spouts weren’t very large – maybe only three meter’s across, but one of them was butting up against the boat and that was a lot of nature’s fury all in one spot. Then just as suddenly as they had formed the winds slowed down, the bottom dropped out of the spout, and the wind shifted upwards instead of round and round. He cast fearful eyes at the heavens and saw the spinning clouds above him, but they were quite possibly miles up now and utterly harmless to them. The entire event couldn’t have been more than twenty minutes long. The rain had even dropped to a drizzle.

“Man overboard!” John shouted, bolting for the nearest PFD and casting about for a glimpse of his Buck.

Satyrs were poor swimmers at best, but John had no idea if Sherlock knew the first thing about it. Would he know to float? Getting to the surface was first and that was trickiest for a Faun because their hooves did poorly for kicking water and were dead weights in the water.

_ Don’t think dead. Don’t think dead. _

“Here! John!” Sherlock’s voice reached him and John saw him struggling on the other side of a swell as it dipped down again.

John went to throw the lifesaver, but a crewman snatched it from him and tossed it instead. Sherlock floundered in the water a moment, struggled to reach the PFD, then snatched it and clung for dear life. John and the sailor hauled him in, dragging him up from the water by both arms. Sherlock toppled to the deck, coughing and shaking with apparent fear. John was kneeling beside him in an instant and half the crew, including the captain, joined him.

“Is he hurt?” The captain asked. 

“I’m checking, Sherlock, are you hurt anywhere?” John asked as he prodded ribs and searched his curls for blood.

“I’m fine, I’m _fine_ , stop pawing at me!”

“I’ll paw at you all I want you fucking bastard!” 

John could only contribute his following actions to a combination of fear, anger, and relief. He slapped Sherlock across the face. Hard. A few crewmembers gasped, a few outright laughed, and then Sherlock struggled to his feet with a look of outrage on his face. He turned to storm off but John chased after him. The crew all cleared out to make sure everything was secure. Show over, back to normal… they thought. 

John snatched at Sherlock’s hair, right where his horns would be, and used the techniques Sherlock had taught him for taking down a Satyr – control the head and the body will follow. Sherlock was on the ground, on his arse, and John was in his lap snogging him in a matter of seconds. 

“You bastard!” John snarled, biting Sherlock’s full lips and ignoring his gasps of surprise, “I told you to get inside!”

John half stood, grabbed one of Sherlock’s arms and one of his calves, and flipped him over onto his stomach. John hauled his hips up, pleased to see his tail shoot straight up and his hips thrust back. Sherlock moaned and John pressed a water-slicked finger inside of him. A few quick thrusts and his Buck was dripping for him. John was still running on adrenalin and rage so he all but tore his trousers off and thrust into Sherlock fast. Sherlock cried out in pain, his body not prepared or wet enough yet, but John was pounding into him relentlessly. Sherlock groaned and arched his back like a cat, his fingers scratching at the deck as John gripped his hair and held him in place so he could fuck the Satyr senseless. 

Sherlock was crying out his orgasm after only a few heated thrusts, but John was far from satisfied and simply adjusted his grip as the Faun went boneless. He lifted his hips, gripping the hair there, and drove into him harder and faster. Sherlock was moaning his name, his upper torso limp as John controlled the rest of his body. 

“If you ever, _ever_ throw yourself into danger again, _just because_ you want to see what will _fucking happen_. I’ll tell you what will happen, Sherlock Holmes. _I’ll leave you_! I’ll bloody, fucking leave your sorry arse!”

“No! John! Don’t! Don’t leave me! You promised!”

“Promise me, Sherlock!”

“I won’t! I promise! OH, ZEUS, _JOHN_! _”_

Sherlock’s muscles clamped down on John again and he held himself still, fighting off his orgasm as the Faun moaned and twitched beneath him. Then John pulled himself out, gave his cock two hard tugs, and was grunting as he came across his Satyr’s body. John smeared his come across Sherlock’s back, growled at him to roll over, and thrust his fingers into the Buck’s mouth when he did. Sherlock moaned and licked it off, his fingers trailing through the watered down mess he’d made on the deck before rubbing it into the skin on John’s chest. 

Sherlock lay back; panting and quivering on the cold, damp deck. 

“I mean it, Sherlock. No more accepting pills from cabbies or cracking safes to get to bombs. No shaking hands with fucking water tornadoes.” 

Sherlock nodded weakly and John tugged his pants back into place. Sherlock’s theory had been wrong. If the crew had watched, they’d been sneaky about it. None of them were paying John or Sherlock an ounce of mind as John levered himself to his feet and stomped off towards their cabin to check on Molly and Moriarty. Sherlock followed demurely behind him. Once inside the cabin Sherlock accepted a towel from John, who was already drying off, but kept his eyes lowered and his ears drooped. He knew John was still angry and was sending off every Satyr sign for ‘I’m sorry’ he could manage. The last time John had seen him this contrite was after he’d experimented on John in Dartmoore. 

“Did something happen?” Molly asked, and went to Sherlock’s side to see if he were hurt. She reeled back a second later, a look of disgust on her face, “Were you two… you smell like… on the _deck_. In front of _everyone_.”

Neither John nor Sherlock responded, so Molly nervously pointed towards the tiny shower. Sherlock shook his head, dried off as best he could without disturbing the mess on his back, and went to sit on John’s bunk with a towel beneath his still damp bum. 

“You… you could at least _shower_. John tell him to shower!”

“No. He lets it dry,” John stated, his voice still angry.

“That’s disgusting, unsanitary, uncivilized…!”

“It’s a Satyr thing, Molly,” Sherlock sighed, “I don’t expect you to understand.”

“What, he’s marking his territory or something?”

“A bit, yes,” Sherlock nodded, “Though in our case it’s more of a dominance thing. John was establishing his intention to protect me as his submissive lover… of a sort. It’s normally followed up by a marriage ceremony, but I imagine that will have to wait.”

“Oh, lovely, will you be pissing on him next? Can I pop out if you do, or would you like an audience for that, too?”

John gaped at Molly, shocked at her sudden flair of temper.

“I do believe I’ve told you there will never be anything between us, Molly,” Sherlock sighed, to which John looked away in embarrassment for her sake.

Molly made a horrified squeaking noise and took off. John sighed.

“That was unnecessarily cruel, Sherlock,” John scolded lightly, but his heart wasn’t in it.

“She needs to hear it. She won’t leave up otherwise.” 

“Bend over, let me check you for tearing,” John urged now that they were alone.

“I’m fine, really,” Sherlock replied, but slipped to his feet and turned around anyway. 

John inspected him for blood but saw none, even after slipping a finger in and stroking around the inside of his lover’s body. Sherlock moaned and shuddered and John chuckled at his enduring sexual appetite. Sherlock turned around again and hopped up to sit on the bed again. John fisted his cock and Sherlock’s head fell back in bliss. 

“You terrified me, Sherlock,” John whispered as the man whimpered and thrusted weakly up into his hand.

“M’ sorry,” Sherlock panted.

“When you’re finally _satisfied_ I’m going to check those stitches, too.”

“S’good… doctor… mmmmmmm.”

John chuckled and laid his head on Sherlock’s uninjured shoulder as he pleasured his Buck slowly, allowing the desire to build inside him like a fire. When Sherlock began to pant he sped up, using his thumb to stroke his cockhead and fondling his bollocks with his free hand. 

“I love you so much, Sherlock,” John breathed onto his sweaty shoulder. 

“I want to stop them,” Sherlock panted. 

John was confused a moment. Stop them? Them who? Stop this? 

“You want me to stop?”

“Ngn! No! Don’t! Oh, gods, John, I’m close!”

“What do you want to stop, Sherlock?”

“Want… to…” Sherlock panted for several seconds and John doubted he would get an answer then, “Kidds… want your Kidds! Ah!”

Sherlock climaxed, though there was little to show for it besides a beautifully flushed face, a freshly tanned body convulsing in pleasure, and a cry of bliss. John licked the tiny bit of semen off of his hand and tried to wrap his head around what Sherlock had just babbled mid-wank. Had he meant that?

“You want to stop the birth control? You want to have Kidds with me?” John asked carefully.

“I…” Sherlock blushed and looked away, his breath still fast from his recent orgasm, “Yes… if… if you still want me.”

“Oh, Zeus, Sherlock you have no idea how much I want you.”

John caught his lover’s head in his hands and kissed him passionately. Sherlock moaned into the kiss, draping his arms around John’s shoulders and tugged him between his legs. They held each other tightly for several minutes, just breathing in each other’s scent and memorizing the feel of each other’s bodies beneath their hands. 

[CHAPTER NINETEEN](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/51406.html)


	19. vincentmeoblinn | Seduced By A Satyr Ch 19

<http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Cyclades-Satellite.png>

Cyclades Islands, Greece- off the coast of Milos Island.

They headed to the Cyclades, a group of about 220 islands southeast of mainland Greece in the Aegean Sea. The southwestern most islands, from Milos to Santorini, had been the hidden paradise of the Satyr people until some fool had leaked the truth of the hidden race to the world. Greece had attempted to protect the last remnants of their ancient religion, but to no avail. European and American entrepreneurs had snuck onto the islands and kidnapped hundreds of them almost overnight. They were at first kept as curiosities in private collections, eventually sold to zoos, then finally made their way to circuses. Once they became widely known people started commenting on their strength, endurance, and sexual appetite; they went from small circus stars and pets to slaves in less than a decade.

Thankfully it didn’t take more than 60 years for people to realize that these were _sentient_ beings, despite their similarities to goats, and freedom was quickly obtained. While they had been secreted away, only occasionally traveling to other islands by boat, their race had dwindled due to a lack of unrelated mates and too little territory. Once all the islands had been raided and a breeding program started the population soared to five times the original amount; thanks in no small part to the Satyr urge to reproduce quickly and often and their relatively short gestation period of five months. A Doe was able to bear up to six Kidds at a time in a litter – with the most common being twins – and a Buck able to bear up to three – with the most common being one – with an average of two litters every 18 months. The hyper breeding had decreased once freedom had been announced, but doctors all agreed that forcing Does to reproduce that quickly and that often was unhealthy in the extreme. Satyr still maintained a far higher birth rate than Women. 

“There are going to be some plants you can’t eat,” Sherlock told John as they stood on the deck of the ship with Sherlock holding him tightly around his middle. John held the rails of the deck and watched the approaching dock with a feeling of excited anticipation growing in his belly.

“You just point out what I can, I’ll follow your lead,” John replied. 

Apparently most Satyr who still lived on the Islands were virtually savage, much like the reservations in England and America that housed the freed Satyr who refused to leave their culture to integrate with their captors’. They lived in caves or adobe huts, nimbly grazed on the rocky terrain, and some farmed the soil on Milos and Santorini’s volcanic islands. They drank their Does milk (Bucks produced less and dried up quickly) made cheese and butter from it, baked bread in clay ovens and ate very little meat, usually only when the weather turned against them or other food was scarce. They spoke only Greek and Satyrese. The Human inhabitants – when there were any – largely ignored their presence. John was practically shaking with excitement.

“I can’t wait to get off these decks and onto solid ground,” Sherlock complained. 

“I’m just glad to see the back end of Moriarty,” John sighed blissfully, leaning his head back on Sherlock’s shoulder. 

Sherlock pressed a kiss to John’s temple and he could feel the growing smile there as they both recalled their final parting from the once consulting criminal.

XXX 24 hours ago XXX

Jim Moriarty woke from what felt like days of sleep and groggily stared around himself. The first thing he noticed was the unbearable pain, the second was the intolerable dryness in his mouth, the third his unfamiliar surroundings, and the final balance to tip the scales was the catheter in his dick. He tried to call out, but all that his throat produced was a dry raspy sound. Finally he saw a small bit of movement and recognized the Human bitch from surgery.

“Hello, Jim,” She smiled softly, “Bit of a far cry from IT, yeah?”

_ IT?  _ Jim’s groggy mind turned that over, recalled that he’d ‘dated’ her while luring in Sherlock Holmes, and frowned in annoyance. _She’s not still on about_ that _is she? Get over it!_

Jim licked his lips demonstratively and she bobbed her head and pressed an ice chip into his mouth. He moved it around with his heavy tongue but it melted horridly fast. Another followed, and another, until Jim’s mouth felt a bit less like the business end of an un-sheered sheep. 

“Think you can manage some water? You might be a bit sick. Don’t push yourself.” 

Jim nodded and she brought a straw to his lips. The first few sips were better than sex, but after that his stomach roiled angrily and he turned his head away in favor of taking big breathes of air. The woman moved to insert a needle into an IV at his arm and he experienced almost instant relief of the nausea. 

“You best not get used to that, poppet, you won’t be getting it again. We’ll try you on broth soon, and then solids a few hours later. I wouldn’t normally rush things, but you don’t have much time left under my care and John won’t have you set loose with an empty stomach.”

“What…?” Jim managed to croak out, but that was all he could manage.

“Oh, revenge, poppet, lots of revenge. I’m getting a bit, too, I suppose, but I’m really just doing this for Sherlock. Now we’re going to try to sit up and I want you to tell me how you feel. Dizzy? Yes, we’re going to have to get that kicked out fast.”

Jim spent the next 24 hours in excruciating pain as they forced him up and moving around despite his weakened state. They landed on an uninhabited island in gods-only-knew-where and he was taught to manipulate a wheelchair. For some reason they insisted he learn how to do it with his fingers bound together. It was then that he found out he was footless. He had known there was pain, of course, but he could still _feel_ his hooves! When they first let him see beneath the blankets, instead of a pair of human feet attached to his legs there were only stumps. He’d screamed until his throat had given out. His arse, in comparison, was numb from where the nerves had been severed when they’d cut out the base of his spine when removing his tail. His head felt as though someone were constantly beating it with a pair of sledgehammers. His shaved head was hideous with the two fleshy wounds where they’d pulled his scalp taught and stapled over the holes where his horns had once been. He’d been debuttoned, of course, so they would never grow back. His hair would, thank gods, and he could comb it over the bare spots if they never grew hair. However, there would never be reconstructed ears where the hideous stubs existed, looking as though someone had put little cones on the side of his head.

“You’ll have to be careful with the wound on your arse, Moriarty,” Watson had cautioned, “Since you can’t feel it you’re going to be in some danger of getting infection if it reopens. We’ve pumped you full of antibiotics and kept you hydrated and nourished; you should heal within a good six months if you keep yourself clean, safe, and well fed. Of course, that’s going to be the _real_ challenge.” 

Once he’d demonstrated an ability to maneuver in a wheelchair they took him back to what was obviously a smugglers ship. He still had no idea what they intended to do with him until that night when Sherlock Holmes finally made an appearance at his bedside.

“You’ll want to sleep well tonight, Jim,” Sherlock had stated with a soft smile, “You won’t be sleeping well again for the rest of your miserable life, I’d wager. Now, as to your future: are you familiar with _The Princess Bride_? No? Ah, well, let me explain to you how this works. I’m going to read an excerpt from the book to you and then you will have a decision to make.”

Sherlock took out a much worn paperback book, opened it to a dog-eared page, and began to read.

_“"I’m going to tell you something once and then whether you die is strictly up to you," Westley said, lying pleasantly on the bed. "What I’m going to tell you is this: drop your sword, and if you do, then I will leave with this baggage here"—he glanced at Buttercup—"and you will be tied up but not fatally, and will be free to go about your business. And if you choose to fight, well, then, we will not both leave alive."_  
"You are only alive now because you said 'to the pain.' I want that phrase explained."  
"My pleasure. To the pain means this: if we duel and you win, death for me. If we duel and I win, life for you. But life on my terms. The first thing you lose will be your feet. Below the ankle. You will have stumps available to use within six months. Then your hands, at the wrists. They heal somewhat quicker. Five months is a fair average. Next your nose. No smell of dawn for you. Followed by your tongue. Deeply cut away. Not even a stump left. And then your left eye—"  
"And then my right eye, and then my ears, and shall we get on with it?" the Prince said.  
"Wrong!" Westley’s voice rang across the room. "Your ears you keep, so that every shriek of every child shall be yours to cherish—every babe that weeps in fear at your approach, every woman that cries 'Dear God, what is that thing?' will reverberate forever with your perfect ears. That is what 'to the pain' means. It means that I leave you in anguish, in humiliation, in freakish misery until you can stand it no more; so there you have it, pig, there you know, you miserable vomitous mass, and I say this now, and live or die, it’s up to you: Drop your sword!"  
The sword crashed to the floor.”” 

“Now then,” Sherlock stated, folding the page once more and placing the book in his lap, “You see your choice? Obviously you’ve already made it when you asked John to alter your body: such a foolish move to make yourself utterly helpless in front of a known enemy. To clarify, your ears _have_ been cut off, but the hearing senses are mostly in tact despite that. Your hands, eyes, and tongue will _not_ be removed, however…”

Sherlock pulled out two vials and multiple syringes from the bedside table and placed them upon it.

“I have here a mild acid and this one is bee venom. The acid I will drip onto your corneas to blind you – you may retain some vision, but I wouldn’t hold out hope. The venom will be injected into your lingual nerve; now the effects of this action may be only temporary numbness but what I’m aiming for is permanent anesthesia, paresthesia, or dysesthesia. If my first attempt fails I’ll try again in the morning, but this time I’ll go for your inferior alveolar nerve; if that happens your symptoms will be far more widespread and encompass your chin, jaw, and lower lip. It’s much more guaranteed, actually, but I’m going for poetic here, not necessarily perfect results. Your hands you will keep, however, because John has forbid me from making you a complete cripple, but we’ll be deadening the nerves in them as well. Your nose we will leave unaltered because I want you to be able to _smell_ when a Satyr is near you and know that it doesn’t matter. Any questions?”

“That is not danger, it is inevitable destruction,”* Jim breathed, in awe of the brilliant _villain_ Sherlock had show himself to be.

“When you have one of the first brains of Europe up against you, and all the powers of darkness at his back, there are infinite possibilities.* This was but one.”

“What will you do when I’m gone?”

“Marry my Buck and start having babies. He’s already looked up Satyr marriage customs- doesn’t think I know,” Sherlock winked.

Jim recoiled in disgust.

“What?” Sherlock asked, “Too pedestrian for you?”

“Not Watson?” Jim asked, confused by the reference to a Buck.

“Yes, John Watson, what of him?”

“He’s been a naughty boy!” Jim singsonged, hoping to sew a few more bad oats.

“If you’re referring to the incident involving your arse and an orthoscope, I do have the video here if you’d like to see it,” Sherlock taunted, holding up his phone. 

Jim peered at it in confusion and fumed at the sight of his guards and Watson conspiring against him. Half of them had fucked him before but… now that he thought on it he’d found a sex toy in the pockets of two of them before. Could they have been buggering him with toys out of lack of interest this entire time? He was so mad he was shaking with it, his breath coming out in angry snorts.

“Oh, did you think you were Mr. Sex?” Sherlock taunted, “Sorry, dear, that would be me.”

Sherlock picked up the syringes and started filling them; carefully measuring out the dosages while Jim tried to think of something, anything, _fast_. Sherlock held all the cards… all except one.

“Kill me instead.”

“No. We’re past that option, long past that option, actually. We crossed it when my poor John was raped in prison. I thought about going after the actual rapist, but then it occurred to me. Jim Moriarty:  He sits motionless, like a spider in the centre of its web, but that web has a thousand radiations, and he knows well every quiver of each of them. He does little himself. He only plans. But his agents are numerous and splendidly organized. Is there a crime to be done, a paper to be abstracted, we will say, a house to be rifled, a man to be removed - the word is passed to the Professor, the matter is organized and carried out. The agent may be caught. In that case money is found for his bail or his defense. But the central power which uses the agent is never caught - never so much as suspected. The man pervades London, and no one has heard of him. That's what puts him on a pinnacle in the records of crime. If I could beat that man, if I could free society of him, I should feel that my own career had reached its summit, and I should be prepared to turn to some more placid line of life. ”*

“You flatter me,” Jim smiled.

“If I were assured of your eventual destruction I would, in the interests of the public, cheerfully accept my own.”*

“Then we should fall together, love,” Jim cooed, but Sherlock only smiled at him.

“The only falling I intend to do is into a bed of heather with my very well endowed lover. Say ‘ah’.”

“I’ll kill myself,” Jim promised, anger flashing in his eyes.

“You might eventually, but you’ll have a time of it with so much of you out of sorts. Now. Open wide.”

XXX The Next Morning – Athens, Greece XXX

Jim woke the next morning unable to speak clearly, with numb fingers and pain radiating everywhere else (except his arse). He opened his eyes to complete darkness. Sherlock deemed him worthy of dismissal and Watson injected him with some lovely morphine and a sedative. Once he awoke again he was sitting in his wheelchair with the sounds of traffic around him. He was outside; he could feel the sun and breeze on his skin.

_The sounds of life, Sherlock_. Jim thought to himself.

He moved about, searching around him, and found a backpack attached to the wheelchair. In it was a bottle of pills, but he couldn’t get them open and didn’t know what they were even if he could. He searched further and found a canteen full of water, which he gratefully downed. More fumbling resulted in a plastic parka to ward off rain, a brolly, and a spare set of clothes. A blanket was already folded over his lap. That seemed to be the extent of his worldly possessions until he heard a clink in front of him. Bending forward – minding his slight dizziness – he searched the ground until he picked up a hat from it. It was a fedora and there were a few coins inside.

Jim Moriarty, former Consulting Criminal, currently a blind, mute, cripple with poor motor skills, debated the merits of using his fedora to cover his hideous head and therefore garnering a bit more kindness from strangers. At that moment he caught the scent of a Satyr passing by. He let out a cry, and reached for her, but she recoiled from his touch.

“ **Zeus! What is that _thing_?!” ** She cried out.

**“It looks like a Satyr tried to make himself human. How rediculous,”** Came the voice of a nearby Buck.

“ **No! Tami, don’t touch it! It might have fleas.** ”

The voices receded into the roaring darkness around him and he dropped the fedora back onto the sidewalk.

_Well played, Sherlock Holmes. Well played, indeed. So much for the side of the angels._

XXX Present Day – Milos Island XXX

“Sherlock?” John called as they stepped off the boat onto the pristine sands around them.

“Hmm?”

“I, ah… I got you a present, and I’d like to give it to you before we go to the village.”

John glanced nervously at the clay huts he could see in the distance. A horned figure strode by purposefully, but he didn’t stop to pay them any mind.

“Very well, let’s have it then.”

John fiddled nervously with the package he’d been toting about ever since they’d dropped Moriarty off in the middle of Athens. He’d seen the quant store – Tribal Faun it’s name translated to in English – and had picked up a few things for himself and Sherlock while the Faun had been looking through a directory to find a nice restaurant to eat at. Now John unwrapped it and held it out to Sherlock. It was a broom, of course, a rather fine one made of sturdy oak with a very thick handle. The bristles were thin and scraggly- not the sort you’d use on a floor- this was meant for decoration to be hung on a wall and admired. It was sold with a crooked little ceremonial knife in the hilt to carve names or symbols into it. He also had a bouquet of silk flowers – all a deep purple - with very flexible stems so they could be weaved into a marriage knot.

“John, are you proposing marriage?” Sherlock asked, his eyes lighting up.

“Well, yes?”

“Then I accept.”

John grinned from ear to ear and Sherlock stepped forward to enfold him in his arms and kiss him senseless. John melted into that beautiful kiss and they spent several minutes standing on the beach just exploring each other’s mouths. Finally Sherlock broke the kiss and whispered softly into John’s ear.

“You, John Watson, are going to be a _very_ satisfied Buck tonight.”

Sherlock led John away by the hand and he followed after him with the broom slung over his shoulder, flowers in his hand, and a dopey grin on his face.

 

*Multiple direct quotes from Sherlock Holmes Sir ACD stories were used in this chapter. 

[CHAPTER TWENTY](http://vincentmeoblinn.dreamwidth.org/51511.html)


	20. vincentmeoblinn | Seduced By A Satyr Ch 20

Sherlock was sexy as hell in the middle stages of pregnancy. Not in the beginning. In the beginning he was a gassy, angry bear with a food fetish that withheld sex. Not in the end, either, because at that point he turned into a penguin and waddled everywhere with his hoofed legs splayed to keep his balance, demanding blowjobs and celery coated in steak sauce. However, in the middle of his pregnancy he was glowing, curvy, lustful, sultry, graceful; he would sashay around the flat or across London with his baby bump proudly displayed, his eyes half lidded as though ready for a good thorough fucking at any point in time, and a knowing smile on his face because _everyone_ wanted to give it to him and he knew it. 

Now were not any of those times. Now was a quiet interlude with John slipping pictures of Sherlock’s pregnancy into the photo album before starting on the photo album for their twin Kidds. 

“Don’t do that! I don’t want to remember what I looked like pregnant. I’ll never want it to happen again!” Sherlock hissed, keeping his voice low to avoid waking the twins. 

“I _liked_ you pregnant.”

“No you didn’t.”

“I liked you in the _middle_ of your pregnancy.”

“Everyone liked me in the middle of my pregnancy. I was putting out hormones similar to heat hormones. I was a sex buffet.”

“Zues, yes, can we fuck now?”

“Animal.”

“Oi! Racist!”

“Not _that_ kind. I meant you are an animal in bed.”

“What sort, then?” John teased.

“An octopus.”

John chuckled and slid down to his knees to crawl across the sitting room floor to where his lover was sitting with a blanket draped around him. He was self conscious of his belly ever since the pregnancy, but John barely noticed it. The bit of fur he had obscured what Sherlock was calling his ‘kangaroo pouch’; it wasn’t nearly as obvious as Sherlock made it out to be. Other than that he had a few stretch marks that were also mostly hidden. The ones on his chest weren’t unfortunately, but that was the price you paid for nursing twins for two months. Bucks dried up rather fast, so Sherlock was already well past that point. 

“I want another,” John growled, and took Sherlock’s blanket in his teeth and started pulling. 

Sherlock laughed and pulled back at it, snickering as John growled and shook his head like a dog. 

“Fine!” He whispered, “Fine! We’ll have another! Go get the lube, but be _quiet_ about it!”

“No condom?”

“No bloody condom, no.” 

“Thank _Aphrodite_ ,” John breathed, and hurried as silently as possible to the bedroom to grab the lube. 

Sherlock snuck up behind him and groped him, making him hiss in pleasure. 

“The living room is below their room, we should use the bed.”

“That’s what it’s for,” John agreed stupidly. Sherlock had a habit of rewiring his brain like that.

They toppled into bed together, kissing and nipping as they stripped each other of clothes and John set about licking at Sherlock’s nipples. He had four. Most people didn’t notice the smaller two because they were non-functional and looked more like pale moles, but they were just as sensitive and John lathed each of them before picking one and giving it a nip. Sherlock hissed and jumped and pulled John’s hair in that way that drove him crazy. 

They mock-fought each other for dominance, as they often did, but John knew the seriousness behind it this time. If he couldn’t get Sherlock _under_ him he’d end up being the one with a cock up his arse, and that wasn’t very conducive to getting Sherlock pregnant again. So he put his strength into it and licked and bit until Sherlock was distracted by lust and then flipped the panting Satyr onto his belly. He got a rather harsh kick to the leg for his efforts, but he’d long ago learned to ignore the bruises that littered his legs from his Buck lover’s sharp hooves. 

“You know Sally thinks you abuse me,” John teased as he slipped a lubricated finger between those two full orbs and pumped it powerfully. 

Sherlock moaned, “Other way round.”

“Oh? How so, my Buck?” John chuckled and gave him a sharp bite on the shoulder.

“Oh, yes! Mmmmnnn, Jooohn,” Sherlock moaned, apparently forgetting to reply.

Sherlock’s velvety passage was clenching around his fingers at this point, his hips bucking back as he panted and demanded more from his lover. Sherlock was beautiful like this: his pale skin flushed with lust, his normally sharp eyes glazed, his full lips parted as he panted and moaned for more. Every dark mark on his skin seemed to stand out in sharp contrast with his milky-white skin. John caressed his free hand over them and then scratched down the middle of Sherlock’s back to make him arch and cry out in anticipation.

“I love taking you apart like this. I love that I can distract you from working with my hands, stop you from thinking with my mouth…”

“Stop me from walking with your cock,” Sherlock teased. 

“You’re going to be bowlegged for _weeks_ when I’m done with you,” John promised as he slicked his member up quickly. 

A quick thrust in and Sherlock was growling his approval out. John reached up and took hold of Sherlock’s horns, always feeling a pang of excitement now that they had re-grown, and pulled Sherlock into the angle he knew the Faun loved. With himself secured in the mounting he pounded into the Satyr, aiming to graze his prostate on every third thrust. Sherlock was quickly angered by the lack of stimulation on his pleasure spot and began to growl and struggle – hips arching to either buck him off or hit that spot himself. John moaned and ground his hips firmly into that jumping backside, before finally giving his head a firm shake to get him refocused. When Sherlock went limp beneath him John drove into him with accuracy and Sherlock was soon moaning his approval.

Those moans turned to muffled shouts of pleasure as he pressed a pillow into his face while his muscles clenched beautifully around John’s cock. John stilled and was pressed so firmly into Sherlock’s body he could feel the Satyr’s much larger bollocks pulsing with each jet of come that was pushed out of his body onto their duvet below. Once Sherlock’s tense body relaxed John began to thrust again with purpose, chasing his own release this time and knowing from years of experience exactly how long it would take Sherlock to climax again. Already the curly haired Buck was stroking his member, his grunts higher in pitch and his moans barely muffled by the pillow. Sherlock reached up with his free hand and clawed at the headboard. Many similar claw marks adorned it, John had once joked that Sherlock was making tally marks. In actual fact the Faun was unaware of his actions; he was reaching out to stabilize himself as he would if they were outside by digging his fingers into the dirt. 

When Sherlock’s body clenched his cock again, stroking him with the intensity of his orgasm, John gasped and grunted out his own gratification. He was sorry he didn’t have a pillow to muffle his own sounds in as he was sorely put not to scream from the sensation of Sherlock’s body milking his pleasure from him. He knew it might not take just yet, but he still felt powerfully fulfilled by the simple fact that he had filled his lover with his seed. He loved being able to fill Sherlock’s belly with Kidds. It was an intensely rewarding sensation knowing he could give Sherlock that big round belly and then see the joy and love in his eyes as he held their child to his teat for the first time. 

Two years. It had taken two years to conceive the twins. Humans often had difficulty impregnating Satyr it seemed, but Sherlock had refused to go to a clinic and make it a medical procedure. Jayden and Mira were beautiful in every way and worth the years they had strived to make them. As John and Sherlock lay panting in each other’s arms, Sherlock lazily tracing patterns across John’s chest, John softly smiled at his beautiful lover. Sherlock’s eyelids were lowered a bit as he lay in satisfied bliss. John knew he could easily go again, and slid down to give his insatiable lover his mouth to use as he wanted. John had practically eliminated his gag reflex and Sherlock was rather skilled at fucking John’s skull without choking or suffocating him. The man showed the perfect combination of restraint and unbridled passion.

Sherlock tasted of salt and smelled of sweat as he slid into John’s mouth, the spongy head pressing hard against the back of John’s throat. He swallowed around it, gagging a bit at first, and then quickly remembering the rhythm as Sherlock began to thrust almost lazily into his orifice. It didn’t take long for Sherlock to speed up and begin a regular motion of three hard thrusts, one shallow one for John to breath, three deep, one shallow, three deep, one shallow… John was moaning and hollowing his cheeks as he sucked on the thick long cock in his mouth. He added a hand to that length and Sherlock grunted in surprise as he often just laid back and let this happen without intervening. He was feeling passionate today, though, and his other hand joined the first to fondle Sherlock’s bollocks before reaching behind and stroke his prostate externally. 

Sherlock shouted out his climax and John groaned as much from the joy of satisfying his Buck as the fact the loud noise Sherlock had made would invariably wake the twins. Sure enough a few seconds after John popped off Sherlock’s softening prick they both heard the soft wails coming through the monitor. John groaned and rolled onto his back.

“Your turn,” He growled, his throat bruised from the thorough fucking it had just taken. 

“I distinctly recall it being yours.”

“That was before you woke them up.”

“Whose fault is that? I was perfectly content to _quietly_ read my book.”

“Says the Buck who just had three orgasms. Up you get.”

“Says the Buck who just had _one_. Do you know how hard it is to walk after coming _three times_? I shall drop them.” 

John chuckled, but the stroke to his ego did the trick and he rose to care for the twins. Once he had the two cheerfully bouncing Kidds changed out of their nappies – they only wore them while sleeping, as they had been mostly toilet trained in the first month of their lives – he carefully carried the tiny creatures down the stairs on each hip. He dropped to one knee and they took off like shots, barreling around the room in excitement and shouting out in Satyrese. John watched them with a mixture of joy and sorrow. He would never know what their first word was. As often as Sherlock called John his Buck, he was still Human and could not understand – let alone speak – Satyrese. His children were three months old; toddler age by Satyr standards, and John could only communicate with them by using baby sign language. 

Mira used it now to say she was hungry and Jayden saw her motion and mimicked it. John smiled and nodded, turning to the kitchen to start holding things up one at a time while he waited for them to indicate which they wanted.

“John,” Sherlock’s scolding voice called out, “ _Say_ what you’re holding up. They’ll never learn English or Greek otherwise.”

John nodded and started to do so and to his absolute joy Mira pointed to the cheese and spoke it’s name.

“Cheese!” 

John’s face lit up, his eyes meeting Sherlock’s, and then he scooped his daughter up and kissed her riotous light brown curls. 

“That’s so wonderful, Mira! My brilliant girl!” John exclaimed.

Sherlock chuckled and bussed her head before ruffling Jayden’s straight auburn locks and fetching the lad some yogurt. Apparently he’d bypassed John and asked Sherlock in Satyrese.

“Sherlock,” John took up the scolding now, “They’ll never communicate with me if you cut me off.”

“I can’t just ignore them, John.”

“I know, but I was getting them food,” John took the yogurt from Sherlock and held it up for Jayden, “Yogurt, γιαούρτι.”

Jayden raised one eyebrow and thinned his tan lips. 

“He looks like Mycroft when he does that,” John scowled at Sherlock, who was trying to hide his laughter.

“Mycof,” Jayden nodded his agreement, and Sherlock snickered. 

“He likes his uncle _way_ too much,” Sherlock laughed, “He’ll be running the government in no time.”

“He probably will,” John sighed and surrendered the yogurt to the lad tugging on his robe. 

Sherlock scooped up Mira and Jayden one by one and put them in their highchairs; John had insisted on them, being that the Kidds were so rambunctious at the table. He lived in terror of broken jaws by jumping Satyr babies; their legs were often too powerful for their little bodies. John set them up with their food and helped Jayden eat his since he tended to be messier than his sister. Mira daintily munched on her cheese stick and gave Jayden disdainful looks when he tried to grab a fistful of yogurt off the spoon. They were young, despite their look to John, and still experimenting with what made the world work. As if to remind him of this, Mira grabbed a saltshaker off the table and dropped it off the edge before Sherlock could snatch it from her. It shattered on the ground and she laughed wildly while Sherlock groaned in frustration and went to get a broom before his lover’s delicate feet could be cut by the glass. 

“Gravity, βαρύτητα,” John informed her solemnly while Sherlock glared at him, then he smirked at his Buck, “Ready for another?” 

“No!” Sherlock snapped and John laughed, but he’d caught the man touching his abdomen gently.

Sherlock wouldn’t be happy with just these two. John knew his Buck well enough to know that instinctively by now. He’d be round with child before long even if John had to _drag_ him to a clinic to speed the process up this time. Sherlock grabbed an apple and started munching happily while John fixed them all some tea. 

“I can’t believe we’re a family,” John sighed happily.

“So you’ve said for three months now,” Sherlock reminded.

“I can’t believe _we_ are a family,” John repeated with enthusiasm, and kissed Sherlock’s cheek. 

Sherlock smiled around his mouthful and petted Mira’s curls before dabbing up the mess Jayden had made. There was a look of peace in his eyes John had never seen before the twins were born. It was perfection. 


	21. vincentmeoblinn | Seduced By A Satyr ALTERNATE Ch 12

This is what I was going to do with the story before I decided to write Chapter 12 instead, but it would have ended the series so I decided to employ a bit of ‘duex ex machina’ to keep it going. When I very first posted this story I got a few complaints about Chapter 12, so I posted the original (listed as an alternate ending) chapter twelve to show why the last chapter seemed a bit half-arsed. It continues my original theme of switching around the original canon (of both the books and the TV series). Personally, I think it’s much better written but it does end the story rather abruptly.

“Moriarty isn’t a part of the Satyr community,” Sherlock explained, “That’s why you were safer there. I’m really not a part of it either, though I am respected within it.”

John and Sherlock were just back from hospital; tucked away in 221B, with Sherlock resting on the couch comfortably while John waited on him hand a hoof. The shades were all drawn and most of the lamps were out. Sherlock was full of paranoia and John was wholly supportive of it.

“Why is that, Sher? The support, the friendliness, the companionship…”

“The _communication_ , John; I’m a sociopath, remember? It’s less obvious with my own kind since I grew up with our customs and such, but after more than an hour in my company most Satyr are as frustrated and disgusted with me as Human’s are,” Sherlock stated, with his own brand of disgust.

“I’m not,” John reminded.

Sherlock smiled at him softly, “You are a rare exception, John, which is why I was willing to do anything to keep you. Including lie on stand and let him go free. We’ll face him together.”

Sherlock motioned John in and he leaned forward to press a kiss to the Satyr’s full lips, but John pulled back almost immediately afterwards.

“Is that all I get? I risk everything for you, don’t see you for over a year, and again over a year before that, and all I get from you is a chaste peck your own sister would find cold?”

“Sherlock, you’re injured,” John chuckled, “I can’t go about _ravishing_ you now, can I?”

“Well, you could at least give it a go!” Sherlock mock scolded. 

John laughed outright; he’d missed this, the way they could banter and simply _exist_ together. 

“Just be gentle with me, John. I know you can be,” Sherlock purred, “You’re a surgeon after all. I’m sure you have very _sensitive_ hands.”

“Doctors are known for cold hands, not gentle ones, Sher,” John replied, swallowing around his suddenly dry mouth.

“You’re a quick study, you’ll learn,” Sherlock snapped.

There was no denying that tone, so John leaned forward and pressed a more intense kiss to Sherlock’s lips. The Faun moaned appreciatively and leaned forwards a bit, but John placed a hand on his good shoulder and pushed him against the backrest once more. 

“Oh, no you don’t. You’re forgetting I’ve been shot where you have before. Until we’re sporting matching scars you aren’t doing anything flexible above the waist.”

“That is not nearly as limiting as you would like to think it is,” Sherlock snorted. 

“Oh, really?” John growled.

John slipped a hand down and cupped his lover’s crotch, loving the fact Sherlock was only wearing a loincloth today and quickly slipped his hand beneath it to stroke the Faun to full hardness.

“John,” Sherlock whispered, his head falling back against the wall in utter bliss, “It’s been so long… the Rut’s I’ve endured without you… I’ve been going slowly mad.”

“Hush, love, I’m here. I’ll never leave you again,” John whispered back, and slid to the floor to take Sherlock’s hardened shaft into his mouth. 

Sherlock moaned and gyrated his hips a bit; John groaned his own approval and gave his own dick a quick squeeze to ease the pressure- he needed out of his trousers… now. 

John was just fumbling with the button when the machine gun fire went off. After years of active duty in Afghanistan, you knew the sound as intimately as you knew your own voice. It was distant, off to John’s left, and he had ducked, rolled, and army-crawled before his mind had told him what he was doing. It wasn’t until he was crouched behind Sherlock’s chair that he remembered he wasn’t in a warzone. He was in 221B Baker Street. There couldn’t be a machine gun… but there had been… he had distinctly heard one…

John peered out from behind his cover and the world came crashing down around him. Sherlock was slack on the couch, not even a sleeping man was that relaxed, his flaccid member shining wetly in the low lamplight in a mockery of their interrupted activity. Holes punctured the couch, the wall behind him, and his own thin body, oozing blood onto his pale skin and matting his dark fur. John’s medical training kicked in and he categorized the wounds without thinking; possible collapsed right lung, tensor fasciae latae, vastus intermedius with a possible fractured right femur, no major artery hit in the leg; not enough blood loss to cause death and too short a time for asphyxiation; victim is salvageable. 

John ducked low and darted the length of the room just in time for the sitting room window nearest his previous position to be shot out as well. He made it to Sherlock and grabbed him around the waist, hauling him down to the ground. It was then he saw the headshot- hidden by the angle of Sherlock’s reclined head- that had blown the right back section (parietal bone, parietal lobe) of his Buck’s skull clear off. For a moment he panicked and all medical knowledge literally fled him as he attempted to press bits of brain and fractures of skull back into his head, scooping them off the couch and sobbing brokenly. One of his fingers was cut on a sharp sliver of bone, but he ignored it in favor of saving his detective’s precious mind. 

_ He still has both eyes, _ John’s frantic thoughts ran, _He’ll still be able to see. That’s important for him to continue The Work._

John heard screaming and thought for a moment everything would be okay – Sherlock couldn’t scream if he was alive – but it was his own hysterical voice and that realization more than anything else brought him around. Sherlock was dead. Sherlock was dead on the sitting room floor of 221B with his brilliant brains splattered on the couch and floor _and_ _the fucker who shot him was still alive_. 

John was up and raging towards the door in time for Sherlock’s bedroom window to be shot out. Military training had created soldiers that were capable of working under even the most extreme of stress, so too did ex-Captain John Watson. His mind immediately pointed out that his enemy was either using coordinated scare tactics or there was only one gunman who was making the rounds to shoot each window out. If the latter was the case, then he had to have gone _through_ 221A in order to get to the other side of the building fast enough to shoot Sherlock’s window out. If that was the case than Mrs. Hudson was in danger or dead. 

A glance to his left as he hit the first floor showed Mrs. Hudson’s door open and a growing pool of blood spreading out into the entryway. John burst through the front door, and instinctively rolled to the side. Good call as machine gun fire turned the door into splinters of wood. The letter ‘B’ hit the ground by his ankle, but John was moving already and his duck behind a car was just in time to see the letter bounce a few times as it was struck again. 

“Come out Sherlock Holmes!” Moriarty’s voice screamed, and John’s lizard brain immediately pointed out that he sounded hysterical. “Come out and pay the piper!”

John couldn’t answer; there was no end to the rage he felt. His own gun was in his hand, but he had no recollection of drawing it, so too was the brick in his other bloodstained hand a stranger until he glanced down to greet it. Moriarty would not live past this day.

Sirens sounded in the distance and John felt unaccountably outraged that they should _dare_ to take his revenge from him. That above all else emboldened him to wrench a side mirror off the car he had ducked behind and angle it to see where Moriarty was hiding.

Jim Moriarty wasn’t hiding. Jim Moriarty was standing in the middle of the street, hands stretched out as though crucified, with tears running down his anguished face and a gun dangling from a strap at his hip. John bolted from hiding, darted into the street and raised his brick to beat the man to death. Someone from one of the nearby buildings shouted a warning, but the word ‘trap’ was muffled out by the sound of more gunfire. John’s side exploded in pain and he toppled into Moriarty, landing on top of him in a sprawl. 

Moriarty lay with arms still spread and John struggled up, the hand that had once held his gun supporting his weight. His legs were useless beneath him, so he ignored the numb appendages in favor of beating Moriarty’s skull in with the brick he still held. The skull turned to mush beneath his hand and he blinked at it in confusion. Moriarty’s mouth opened, revealing a mechanical inside that shouted again:

“Come out Sherlock Holmes! Come out and pay the piper!”

John stared in horror at the sight beneath him. He’d been tricked. This was a wax figure with a mechanical mouth. A decoy. 

A cold gun barrel pressed to John’s own parietal bone, but this was on the left side instead of the right. 

“I do apologize for the deceit, Doctor Watson, I realize you had nothing to do with my lover’s death, but Sebastian and my entire organization are still just as dead and your detective is still just as guilty of pulling the trigger,” John had never heard that voice sound so… serious, cold, dead inside. 

_ Now we have something in common _ .

“Where,” Moriarty continued, thrusting the barrel against his skull to emphasize each word, “Is. He.”

“Dead,” John whispered, anguish reducing his voice to a pathetic sound like wind blowing through a cornfield. 

“I’ll be checking to make sure.”

“Go ahead. I’m sure your gun is heavy, I’ll mind it for you while you climb the stairs.”

“Oh, still able to make jokes? Not so broken after all, although I am standing on your legs and you haven’t noticed.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“No, I don’t suppose it does. Would you like me to end it for you? Take away all the pain?”

“Yes,” No hesitation. John had nothing left to look forward to, nothing that would make the endless hours at his ‘practice’ in the bedsit seem a mere distraction. 

“If it helps any, I’ll be following you along,” Moriarty replied.

“Other side, please, the right side. That’s where you got Sherlock.” 

“As it pleases you,” Moriarty replied, and switched the gun to the back right of John’s skull.

“See you in hell,” John whispered. 

“Ta,” Moriarty chirped.

John never heard the shot.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

20 years later.

Lestrade leaned back on the rocker on his porch. His small bee farm on Sussex Downs had become a place of peace and tranquility for him. He had long since retired from Scotland Yard, had written a book – _A Practical Handbook of Bee Culture-_ with studied observations that Sherlock Holmes himself would have been proud of, had been called out of retirement twice, and had otherwise enjoyed the honest life of a grandfather. 

His memoirs included the writings of one Dr. John H. Watson, a half-assed journal written by Sherlock Holmes – most of which were notes on half-finished experiments - which he would be leaving to the London Museum when the lung cancer finally took him in a few months time. He was old, tired, and running out of friends who were still alive and well enough to visit him. 

Sherlock and John’s death had hit him hard and this was its twenty-year anniversary. He had never caught the bastard who had shot up their flat, executing John like a common criminal in the street. He had been described as looking like Richard Brook, the story time reader from the popular children’s television show that had made a few DVD’s before fizzling out and becoming a cult classic – if only because it had been associated with Sherlock Holmes. Lestrade had looked for him, of course, but the man had simply vanished. Now it seemed he would die without ever knowing.

A Satyr was headed down his drive, huddled over and leaning heavily on a cane: another admirer of his honey, no doubt. Despite the fact he’d only seen him with one once, the sight of a cane always made Lestrade think of John. The man invited himself up onto Lestrade’s porch and sat down beside him with a heavy sigh. He leaned his cane against the wall behind him and gave Lestrade a sad smile. He wasn’t as old as Lestrade had thought at first, no more than 55 perhaps, but he looked worn beyond his years. 

“I didn’t do it in the end,” The thick Irish accent flowed around Lestrade’s mind, and he _knew_ that voice.

“Didn’t do what, Richard?” Lestrade asked, too old, sick, and tired to react as he once might have.

“I didn’t kill myself. I suppose I should have. I was ready to. I was on the roof of 221 Baker Street staring down at all of you while you ran about cleaning up blood and wiping each other’s tears, but I just didn’t jump. I didn’t want to die in the end.”

“You said ‘didn’t’, not ‘couldn’t’, so why didn’t you?”

“Oh, no fear of death or noble thoughts on life: I wanted you to catch me. I wanted _someone_ to catch me, _anyone_ , but I’d made a mistake. I went with Sebastian’s plan to shoot them through the window instead of one of my own clever ideas- and I am clever, Detective Inspector, I’m _very_ clever- but I’m a terrible shot so I had to use that messy machine gun and… Well, you saw the results. Wholly unsatisfying.”

“Yes, I suppose it was.”

“You’re dying, I hear,” Moriarty commented as though mentioning the weather. 

“Yes, and you’re turning yourself in, are you?” Lestrade asked, though not hopefully.

“No, just giving you a final chapter to those books you’re writing... oh, don’t look so surprised. You really should think up a better password for your google drive than ‘JohnLock’. Honestly.”

“Alright then, shall I go and get my laptop?”

“Oh, yes, please do, but don’t be a fool and grab the glock. In fact, stay out of the hall closet, and yes, I know where you keep it.”

Lestrade nodded and stood, leaning heavily to one side as he wheezed a bit, scooped up his portable oxygen bag, then whipped out his gun and shot the Satyr between the eyes. 

“Not today fucker. Today I’m fucking paranoid and carrying it,” Lestrade snarled, and then spit on the Buck’s surprised, frozen face. 

Lestrade toddled inside to use the landline – he got horrible mobile reception on the farm – and rang up Donovan.

“Hey, Sally, it’s Greg. You’re never going to believe what just happened. No, I’m fine. No, it’s that cold case; the one that’s kept us both up all these years? Yeah… I still can’t say their names. No… Not a nightmare. More like a fucking dream come true. Guess who’s dead on my porch? Yeah. Richard _Fucking_ Brook. Moriarty himself came to pay me a visit and got what was coming to him. I’d make a joke about dying happy, but I figure it would be in bad taste.”

Lestrade laughed, then coughed and wheezed, then tugged his oxygen mask over his face and gave it a few pulls.

“Yeah, I’m still here. No, I’m fine. Fine as a dying man can be, better in fact. I’ve got peace for the first time in twenty damn years. Now I feel like I can finally go and apologize to them properly. Meet me at the gravesite tomorrow? Good. See you there. Bye, Sally, and congrats on the promotion again.”

Lestrade hung up his phone, gave the local precinct a ring, and then poured himself a glass of lemonade. He gave the corpse another kick on his way out the door and heaved a whistling sigh as he sank down into his rocker. A bee drifted lazily by, always busy, always buzzing with energy. They reminded him of Sherlock and his manic ways when he was dogging after a criminal. Lestrade smiled at the bee as it hurried on its way and closed his eyes to snooze a bit until the constabulary arrived. The breeze blew the smell of honeysuckle and jasmine towards him. Peace. He was finally at peace. 

So… crisscross, crisscross. Anyone recognize the wax figure and the bee farm? 


End file.
